


Stjarnaverse

by stjaninaro



Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Miscarriage, So sweet I fear for your teeth, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjaninaro/pseuds/stjaninaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a woman and the man of her dreams. </p><p>Includes several timestamps from the verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stjarna

**Author's Note:**

> As it's Easter, I thought I'd post the fluffiest thing I ever wrote, and the only het fic I ever wrote either. 
> 
> To those of a cynical nature, I apologise in advance. Apparently I was a romantic fantasist back in 2010 :)

***

West Sussex, 2010

You close the door behind you and slide off your coat, hanging it on the end of the banisters. Reaching down, you slip off your shoes, sighing gratefully as the feeling returns to your toes.

You spot a set of keys lying in the dish on the hall table. He’s already home then. Good. He’s been far too busy lately, rushing around, sorting out last minute details for the upcoming leg of the tour. 

You’re already dreading it, the loneliness that engulfs you whenever he’s gone for more than a single night, the apprehension and the what-ifs. But then you think of the way his eyes crinkle at the edges whenever he sees you, that hidden smile, and the worry quickly dissipates.

You walk up the stairs, already imagining the silky feel of the water as you slip into the well-deserved bath. Passing the bedroom door, you pause, hearing a quiet noise from within. You push it open, silently, and smile at the sight that greets you, leaning against the doorframe, content to just watch for a few moments.

He’s lying on the bed, one arm tucked behind his head, and his shirt is unbuttoned. He must have just had a shower as his hair is still wet, and his jeans are undone at the top, the pale soft skin of his lower stomach just visible through the gap in the zip. The late afternoon sunshine filters through the open curtains, highlighting the scattering of dark, blondish-brown hairs on his chest.

He’s looking at some papers, and you roll your eyes as you recognise them as press releases. The phone lies abandoned at the foot of the bed. 'Of course,' you think, 'that’s why he’s home. He’s had interviews.' 

He raises his hand to readjust his glasses to a more comfortable position on the bridge of his nose, and rests it back on his stomach. He goes to turn a page, and he glances up and sees you watching him, the glasses magnifying the intensity of his blue eyes. He smiles at you, setting the pages aside.

You can feel the light blush creep over your cheeks, the one that he always manages to draw out of you with the simplest of gestures; the way he opens doors for you no matter where you are, even if there’s already a doorman there, or how his fingertips linger on your hair when he wraps his arms around you.

He beckons you, and you can’t help but to go to him. 'The bath can wait,' you think, as he watches you walking towards him over the rim of his glasses. You reach out a hand as you approach the bed, trailing it along the lightly embroidered eiderdown, and up over the soles of his feet. You feel him shiver and see his toes twitch as you caress a ticklish spot, but you don’t linger, instead dragging your fingertips gently over his ankles, his shins, stroking a little circle round his knee. 

He’s watching you silently, his eyes fixed on yours, though you know he can see your hand and its eventual destination.

You stop, hand still resting on his knee, and he raises a graceful eyebrow. “Hi.” You say simply.

“Hello.” You can hear the amusement in his voice, and you can’t help the answering smile that creeps over your face.

He reaches up to remove the glasses. Your hand shoots out, grabbing hold of his wrist and gently manoeuvring it back down to his lap. “Leave them on.”

He chuckles knowingly and nods, watching you closely as you shift to kneel on the edge of the bed. Your other hand is still on his knee, and with the one holding his resting on his stomach, you’re practically draped across him.

He twists his hand and entwines it with yours, tugging lightly. “Come here.” He murmurs, and you happily stretch out on the bed beside him, your head tucked comfortably into his chest. You turn slightly and bury your nose in his skin, inhaling his scent; fresh and clean after his shower, but still unmistakably him. All the stresses of the day just melt away, and you forget the throbbing pain in your feet, sighing happily as his arm comes down to wrap around you, pulling you closer.

You spend some minutes just recharging, his presence always the one thing able to soothe you. You run a hand up over his bare chest, still damp from earlier, and are rewarded with a low moan and a tightening of the arm cocooning you. You know he can feel you smiling.

His chest hair is soft, almost downy, and just long enough to catch in your fingernails. Pressing a kiss to his collarbone, you sit up and slide off the bed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You smirk at the barely detectable hint of a pout in his voice. “For a shower. I must smell awful, the office was like a furnace today.”

“Don’t be too long.”

You chuckle. “Of course not.”

“I’m serious.” He says, and indeed his expression is just that. “Five minutes and I’m coming in to get you.”

“Promises, promises.” You grin over your shoulder at him as you enter the ensuite, slipping your blouse over your shoulders just as you shut the door behind you. 

You’ll be surprised if he manages to wait the full five minutes, you know him, he wants what he wants. And generally, he wants it now.

You’re tempted to just wait. To lean back against the sink in nothing but your stockings, and wait for the door to open, for him to come in, to push you back against the counter and ravish you. 

But you really do feel terribly uncomfortable and sticky, so with one more glance at the still closed door, you unbutton your skirt and let it fall to the floor, unhooking the sheer black stockings and rolling them down your legs. You unclip your earrings, tiny sapphires, a 15th anniversary gift from him a few months back, and place them carefully on the counter.

You turn on the shower and step under the spray, and within moments you’re imagining his hands, just resting on your hips, holding you close to him. You feel him slide a hand around to rest on your abdomen, stroking slowly, as he always does. You’ve never quite been able to shake the tremendous disappointment and heartache you felt when you found out you couldn’t give him a child, your child. 

You know it’s too late now anyway, you’re both too old, but you still can’t help that pang of emptiness inside when you think of what might have been. You sigh and tilt your head back under the spray, letting the water wash away the lone tear you allowed to escape. 

You hear the door open. “Fuck five minutes I nee-”

And he’s in the shower with you, holding you upright as you clutch at him, struggling to stifle the desperate sobs being torn from your throat. His fingers are in your hair, tangled in the wet strands, pulling you tight against him, trying to shield you, protect you from whatever’s done this to you.

He whispers your name.

You sink to the ground, and he follows, sitting on the warmed tiles and lifting you into his lap, cradling you like he would a frightened child, the water cascading over you both. He murmurs soothingly into your ear until your breath starts to come easier, no longer stuttering painfully in your throat. You nuzzle into his chest, and it’s only then you notice he’s not wearing his shirt.

When you start to shiver, he reaches up and turns off the water. You don’t move, don’t open your eyes, just sit there in his arms, and he’s still rubbing your back, his lips pressed into your hair. He knows what this is about of course, he saw how you had your arms wrapped tightly around your abdomen before you reached for him. He knows you’ve never forgiven yourself.

He’s telling you again now, whispering softly in your ear, that it wasn’t your fault, either of you, it just wasn’t meant to be. 

You nod, knowing he’s right, feeling foolish for getting so upset over something you should have accepted years ago, almost two decades ago.  
*~*~*

Madrid, 1992.

You slip out from under his arm and quietly pad towards the bathroom, grumbling quietly. You’re looking forward to not needing to get up six times a night to use the toilet any more, and smile as you remember that you only have twelve weeks to go. Twelve weeks. It’s a small price to pay, but you’re more than willing to deal with the niggling pains that seem to come in tandem with pregnancy.

Suddenly, you gasp at a particularly vicious cramp, needing to lean against the wall just to remain on your feet. You can feel a warm trickle between your legs and pray that it isn’t what you know deep down it is. 

'No no no no no no, please no...' Your heart stops beating, and suddenly you can’t see, breathe, tears blinding you. The world loses its clarity and all you can think is 'please, anything but this, please!'

Falling to your knees, you crawl the last few feet to the bathroom. You try to stand, using the bath to pull yourself up onto your haunches, but the pain is too much and you slump back against the cold, white tiles. You glance down and quickly look away again, closing your eyes tightly. You try to cry out for him. Your voice cracks on the first syllable, and you sob softly to yourself. 

Another spasm wracks through you and you open your eyes again, moaning with the sheer shock of just how excruciating it is. You can see the trail of blood you left behind, the bright red glittering malevolently in the moonlight, mocking you with its vitality. You cry out for him again, louder this time.

You press a hand between your legs, needing to be sure, and it comes away sticky and bloodstained. You moan and look away, your vision starting to swim. You summon the last of your strength and scream for him.

You hear him stumble out of the bed and call your name, not knowing where you are. You whimper, the only sound you can make, and quick, worried footsteps come towards the bathroom. He flicks on the light and gasps loudly, first seeing the trail of blood, and then you, slumped against the bath, blood soaking the hem of his tshirt that you’ve taken to sleeping in.

He’s on his knees beside you before your hazy brain can even process he’s there. His hands are moving over you, not quite touching, the panic in his eyes telling you he doesn’t know what to do. You weakly reach out to him and he clasps your little hand in his, ignoring the blood on it. You groan loudly as another stab of pain knifes through your body.

Suddenly he shouts out, screaming for someone to call an ambulance. He manoeuvres you into his lap, moving you as little as possible to cause you as little pain as he can. He keeps shouting, getting more and more desperate, ‘till you both hear footsteps running towards your room. 

The door bursts open and Flood appears in the dim light spilling into the bedroom. His eyes widen as he roars for Martin to get an ambulance. Dave is nowhere to be seen. Flood crouches down beside you and lays a hand on Alan’s trembling shoulder. He’s trying to stifle his sobs, not wanting to frighten you even more, but you already know how terrified he is. Even you have never seen him like this before; tears streaming down his face, nose running, and the sheer devastation in his eyes, like his whole world is disintegrating right in front of him.

You don’t remember much after that, don’t remember the ambulance taking you away or Alan riding with you, never once letting go of your hand. The hospital was a blur, the doctors explaining what had happened, explaining the unexplainable, and it didn’t matter what they said, you knew it was your fault.

It’s too late for them to do anything, any of them, the nurses bustling about with heart monitors and cool gel that they spread on you, the doctors and their examinations, their tests, all proving that you’ve failed. Failed him.

They put you on a Pitocin drip to induce labour, and you wait for the inevitable to happen. You feel a hand smoothing the hair back from your face and you slowly turn to face him, eyes blankly staring. He leans forward to rest his forehead against your own, whispering to you, but you can’t hear him.

You push when they tell you to, silent tears streaming down your face. You cling to his hand like a lifeline, and for one brief moment you wonder if you’re hurting him. They tell you to push again and suddenly you can’t. They tell you you can, but you just shake your head over and over again, the hot tears coming thicker and faster, breath catching in your throat as you cry and cry. You try to pull away from him and curl into the foetal position, a vain attempt to block out reality- but he won’t let go of your hand. He’s standing now, leaning over you, pressing desperate little kisses to your mouth, your cheeks, kissing away the salty liquid. “You can do this, you can, I know you can.” He’s saying softly into your ear, and only because it’s him do you believe it.

You push again, groaning in agony as you stretch to accommodate the life leaving your body. You still think of it as a ‘life’, some tiny part of yourself needing to believe there’s still hope, still a chance, until a nurse sighs sadly and you know it’s all over. Your dream turned into the cruellest nightmare in a matter of hours.

You feel numb.

You watch dazedly as the nurse turns away, carrying your little bundle, and you barely notice the doctor collecting the afterbirth and cleaning you up. You faintly hear the nurse asking if you’d like to see your baby, hold him, but you see Alan nod uncertainly and step towards her, his arms extended, shaking, and it’s the first time he’s let go of your hand in hours. The lack of him tears at your composure and you whimper.

He turns back to you, cradling your baby in his arms. He looks up at you, eyes bright, with a watery smile. “My little boy.” He says, his voice cracking, as he hands him to you, settling his small weight in your arms.

You trace a finger lightly over the soft, soft cheeks. “Charlie.” You whisper, the first word you’ve uttered.

Alan looks up at the sound of his name. He sees you gazing down at your child, lips quivering, and it takes a moment to sink in, but he finally realises you’re not talking to him. He’d asked you not to tell him the sex when you’d found out at your 20 week scan, and he’d asked you to surprise him with the name. 

His eyes fill with tears and he sits down heavily on the chair beside your bed, burying his face in his hands as loud sobs wrack through his body. You want to say something to him, anything to soothe his pain, but you know there’s nothing. You reach out a hand and rest it on his shoulder. If anything, it seems to make the tears flow harder. You don’t know what to do, how to comfort him -you don’t know how to comfort yourself -so you squeeze gently, pulling him closer to you, until he’s lying on the bed beside you, your head against his chest and shoulder.

“My Charlie,” you speak softly to your son, “My little Charlie Wilder.”

You can feel him smile shakily against your hair, and he runs a finger lightly over the little face peeking out from the bundle of pale blue blankets. “He’s got your nose.” You say in a breathlessly soft whisper.

“And your ears.”

“Your mouth.” Your voice cracks, and you swallow against the hard lump building in your throat. His arm tightens around you both, and that’s how the nurses find you an hour later, huddled together, clinging to each other, your tiny, perfect family.

You know they’re here to take him away from you, and you start to cry again, clutching him tight to your chest. “No!” you wail, shaking your head frantically, “Please don’t take him away, we need him. He’s supposed to be with us!”

You can hear their empty apologies and lash out at them, knowing they’ll have forgotten all about him by the end of the day. You feel lips against your ear and a broken whisper, “Let them do their job, love.”

You slump back against him, allowing them to take the tiny bundle from your limp arms. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tight, like he’s physically trying to hold you together.

When you leave the hospital three days later, you go straight home to London, not even bothering to say goodbye to the rest of the band. You need to be alone, to be alone together, to come to terms with your inconceivable loss.

He opens the door to your house, letting you enter first, and you walk straight up the stairs and crawl into bed. It’s a long time until you’re strong enough to leave it again.  
*~*~*

You sniffle, and look up into his face. He’s drenched, water dripping off the end of his nose and soaking into his already saturated jeans. 

“I’m sorry...” You say, and he interrupts to tell you again that you have nothing to be sorry for. You nod along with what he’s saying, and speak again. “You’re wet, I’m sorry I made you get wet. And your glasses are dripping.”

You’re babbling. You know it, he knows it, and without a word he picks up in his arms and carries you out of the shower. He brings you straight into the bedroom and lies you down on the bed, going back to fetch a fluffy towel to dry you. 

By the time he gets back, you’re curled in a ball, and he gently coaxes you to lie flat so he can pat the moisture from your body. Flinging the towel on the floor, he digs out an old tshirt of his from the bottom of the wardrobe and tenderly pulls it over your head. He tucks you under the covers, and quickly turning off the lights, strips off his damp jeans and crawls in with you, wrapping an arm around you and drawing you close, resting his chin on your head.

You lie awake for a long time.

“I’ve never blamed you. And I never will.” You hear him speak in a low voice. You pull back to look up at him, and you’re shocked at the raw look on his face, the pain in his eyes. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nod, but you look away, and you suddenly feel his large hand on your chin, tilting your head back to look at him again. “Don’t you?” he repeats, seriously.

Your lip quivers again. “It was not your fault, love. You know what the doctors said, there was nothing you, or I, or anyone could have done.”

“But-”

He places a finger against your lips. “We tried. We tried and tried and tried, and it just didn’t happen for us. We couldn’t do anymore than we did.” He smiles sadly. “We’ve had a good life though, haven’t we? Just the two of us?”

“Yeah.” You say, leaning up to kiss him tenderly on the lips. Your smile is still watery, and you sniffle quietly, but he returns your kiss, pressing his lips firmly against your own, and caressing your cheeks with his large thumbs, sweeping away any lingering tears. “We really have. I couldn’t ask for anyone better.”

You kiss him once more before burrowing deeper under the covers and nuzzling into his chest. His long fingers trail through your hair, his other arm draped comfortingly around your waist, and you sigh with a shudder, the last remnants of your tears. His familiar scent soothes you, and you soon find your eyelids becoming heavy. 

***

You wake with a start early the next morning, so early the sky is still mostly dark, with only the barest hint of light on the horizon. You lie there peacefully, and watch the sunrise through the curtains he had forgotten to shut the night before.

You love this, the quiet moments before he wakes, when you can just lay your head over his heart and listen to the rhythmic beats, his steady deep breaths. You rest your chin on your arms and watch his eyelids flutter, his breathing change slightly as he returns to wakefulness. He peers blearily at you, perched on his chest, and mumbles a sleepy “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

You lean up to peck him on the lips as his hands come to rest on your waist, holding you tight to him. His fingers stroke the soft skin of your lower back, and you close your eyes in pleasure, the last vestiges of the previous night melting away at his touch. You sigh contentedly and sit up, straddling him. “Breakfast in bed?” you ask.

He nods and hums in agreement, but as you shift to get up, he grabs your hips and rolls you onto your back. “I’ll get it.” He says, pressing you firmly into the mattress. He tries to silence your objection with featherlight kisses all over your face and neck.

“Mmm...” You moan, “But it’s your last day at home, I should be looking after you before you leave again.”

He chuckles softly, nipping gently at your neck. “Today is all about me taking care of you. No arguments.”

You huff lightly but let him go, watching him shrug his dressing gown over his shoulders and pad quietly out of the room. You listen to his footsteps getting fainter, and picture him in your mind; popping the slices of bread in the toaster, swearing as it inevitably burns, pouring some juice into your favourite glass and, if you’re lucky, he’ll have found the chocolate pastries that you’ve hidden in the breadbin. You giggle softly to yourself as you imagine the look of utmost concentration he always gets when he makes a cup of coffee; the milk having to be at an exact temperature and level of frothiness before he’s satisfied.

You doze peacefully as you wait for him to return, mind wandering. 'Maybe...'

You open your eyes at the sound of footsteps. He enters the room, carefully balancing the heavily laden tray in one hand, while he tries to close the door behind him. You struggle not to laugh at the sight of a fifty one year old man with jam smeared across his cheek. “Had a little battle with the condiments did we dear?”

“Hmm?” He looks at you in confusion as he places the tray on the bedside table. You beckon him towards you, reaching out a finger to rub at the sticky spot on his soft skin. He chuckles as he realises what you meant. “I had an itch that needed scratching.”

“I’m sure you did.” You reply with a coy smile, your tongue snaking out to lick at the jam on your finger, raspberry, your favourite. Moaning lightly, you close your eyes and take it into your mouth, sucking gently, swirling the tip of your tongue around your finger. “Mmm.”

He’s watching you with hooded eyes, breathing slightly shallower and faster than usual. 

Leaning forward, you suck his bottom lip between your own, sharing the sweet taste of the jam. You kiss softly for a while, lips barely moving, before he pulls away, pressing a final kiss to the tip of your nose.

He motions for you to lean forwards so he can rearrange the pillows, making it more comfortable for you both to lie back and enjoy your breakfast. He removes his dressing gown, throwing it haphazardly over the chaise longue in the corner, before climbing back into bed beside you, settling the blankets comfortably around his chest, and carefully lifting the tray onto his lap.

It’s only then you notice the freshly picked rose lying on the wooden board, a lavender rose. You gasp in happy surprise, and look into his eyes, smiling. You know he’s aware of the meaning behind different coloured roses -he had been the one that had explained them to you after all -but it’s also the very same as the rose he gave you when he turned up unexpectedly on your doorstep one day, many years ago, the first time he asked you out on a date.  
*~*~*

London, 1989.

“Mr. Miller? I have the accounts you were looking for in relation to Mr. Tovey’s studio time over the last four months.” You knock on the slightly ajar door of your boss’ office, pushing it open. “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry! I didn’t realise you were in a meeting.” you apologise as you notice a man sitting opposite him across the desk.

“Don’t worry about it. Just leave them on the desk there and I’ll have a look when I have a free minute.” The phone of his desk rings with a shrill tone, and he picks it up, frowning at the news almost immediately. “Sorry, Alan. I have to step out for a bit. New signing is acting up in a photoshoot. Something about the lighting making them look ‘jaundiced’ or some bloody rubbish like that.” He rolls his eyes,” I won’t be too long.”

“Sure thing, Dan. I’ll just wait here, I’m sure I can find some way of keeping myself entertained.” His guest replies, twirling a pair of dark sunglasses between his long, slender fingers. You both hear your boss muttering something about ‘divas’ as he stands to leave, and you can’t stifle your grin as you momentarily make eye contact.

You don’t miss the smirk he throws your way, and you suddenly realise you recognise him. 'A client then,' you think, taking a closer look at him, hazy images of past press releases floating in your mind’s eye.

He’s attractive -dauntingly so –but he seems to know it, judging by his self-assured smile, and the almost arrogant confidence oozing from his every pore.

“Behave yourself Alan.” Daniel says warningly over his shoulder as he steps past you, and walks briskly down the corridor, grumbling under his breath.

You turn back to the room and walk over to leave the large file of accounts on the desk, where Daniel can easily find it later. You can feel an intense gaze boring into the back of your neck, and you stumble slightly, dropping the papers and watching them flutter to the ground to land in a messy heap at your feet. You can already feel your cheeks heating in an inevitably obvious blush.

“First day on the job?” He asks, teasingly, struggling to suppress a smile.

Without even thinking, you whirl round to face him. “Looking to sign a record deal are we?’’ 

You don’t really mean it, the embarrassment making you short-tempered, but luckily he takes it in good humour.

“Touché.” And he flashes you a genuine smile. “Here let me help you.”

He walks over to you and bends down to gather up the stray sheets of paper, glancing at them as he hands them to you in a neat bundle.  
“Oh... Um... Thank you.” You quickly straighten them up and flick through them to make sure they’re back in the correct order, before carefully placing them on the desk and stepping away.

“No problem.” He sticks out a hand, and introduces himself. “I’m Alan. Alan Wilder.”

You tell him your name and shake his hand, shocked at just how large his hand is around your own. You feel a jolt of electricity at his touch, and you immediately curse yourself as you feel the blush rising to your cheeks again.

He smiles once more, and again you’re struck with just how good he looks; stunningly intense blue eyes studying you from above an aristocratic nose, and full, dark pink lips curved upwards at the side. He looks like the sort of man your mother would have told you was too good to be true.

You still haven’t let go of his hand. 

You realise it’s been a long while since either of you spoke, so you say the first thing that comes into your head. “I’m so sorry, I know I’ve seen your face before, but I can’t for the life of me think which band you’re in.” You explain apologetically.

He looks shocked, and for a brief moment you fear you’ve offended him horribly, until he suddenly laughs, breaking the tension. “Don’t worry about it, it’s not important.”

You smile, relieved that he isn’t annoyed by your ignorance, and start to laugh along with him. “It may not be my first day, but I really haven’t worked here all that long to be honest, just five months, so I’m not familiar with all of the artists yet.”

“Really?” He looks genuinely interested. “What exactly is it you do?”

You gesture at the file on the desk. “Accounts. Not very exciting I’m afraid.”

“Oh I don’t know, I’m sure I could find something interesting about them if I tried.” The intensity of his eyes is almost overwhelming.

“I’m sure you could.” You say faintly, not willing to be the one to look away first. You swallow hard, and desperately try to think of something clever to say to him. Nothing comes to mind, and you find yourself rambling. “I don’t just handle accounts though, I deal with anything Mr. Miller needs; finding available studios, producers, equipment, that sort of thing.”

“Now that I definitely find interesting.” He says, eyes lighting up, but before he can continue, Daniel comes stalking back into the office, still grumbling under his breath, and he steps back, finally releasing your hand.

You know you have no reason to be able to stay any longer so you quickly turn to leave, already missing the warmth of his skin against yours. Before you reach the door, you feel his hand on your elbow, stopping you dead, and you hear his voice close to your ear, warm breath tickling your neck. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

You nod, turning to face him, and the look in his eyes leaves you trembling. “You too.” You reply, thankful that you at least mange to keep the tremor out of your voice, and swiftly leave the room, closing the door firmly behind you.

*** 

You arrive at your desk the next day to find a huge bunch of roses waiting for you, orange roses. ‘Unusual,’ you think. You quickly check for a card and find one, hidden between the blooms. It doesn’t have a message, but you know exactly who they’re from, the initials ‘A.W.’ giving it away immediately, and you can’t hide the delighted grin from lighting up your entire face.

You’d spent the previous night reading through every single press release you could find that mentioned him; magazine interviews, newspaper clippings, reviews of his band’s music and shows. You’d found out the usual things; where’s he from, what he’s done with the band. And also some more surprising things, like the fact that he’s eight years older than you. That had shocked you- he didn’t look thirty, maybe twenty-five at most. ‘There’s no way he’d ever be interested in me.’ 

The more you’d read, the more downhearted you’d felt. 

But now, looking at the mass of blossoms... “Maybe...” You smile, and spend the rest of the day struggling to concentrate on your work, constantly glancing at the flowers to reassure yourself you haven’t imagined them. You fail to notice Daniel watching you with a fond smile, knowing exactly what’s running through your mind, and hoping it will work out for you both. Though Alan had tried to play his usual cool and aloof self after you’d left the office the day before, Daniel had seen right through him, seen the genuine interest and attraction in his eyes, and had eventually relented, telling him as much about you as he could.

***

A few weeks pass with no more contact after the flowers, and your good mood and hopes start to fade. ‘Maybe it was all just a joke to him...’

“Mr. Miller? Is there anything else you needed me to do today?” You ask, stepping into his office.

He looks up and shakes his head, telling you to go home and enjoy your weekend. You turn to leave, and hear him speak again. “He’s been busy you know, promo tour in Germany. He’ll be back next week.” He says it conversationally, almost as if he’s speaking to himself, but you know it’s for your benefit. You smile gratefully, nodding, and softly shut the door behind you, a happy blush making its way over your cheeks.

*** 

Next week comes and goes, and you slowly give up on anything coming out of the whole encounter. He’s probably forgotten all about you by now anyway, consoled with the hundreds of fangirls that turn up wherever he goes, screaming at his every movement, giving him whatever he wants- when he wants it. 

It’s a cold, rainy day, and you’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in your duvet, watching a film, Apocalypse Now. It’s always been one of your favourites; you remember sitting on your father’s knee, watching it in weather just like this when you were little, cuddled into his chest so you could hide from anything scary, or too loud. Now though, you have the volume turned right up, and it’s because of this that you don’t hear the knock on your door until whoever’s outside is almost pounding on the wood.

You jump up and go to open the door, almost gasping with shock as you see him standing on your steps, wet and shivering, clutching a rose almost nervously in his hand. You stare at him, speechless.

“Um... hi.” He says, sounding very unsure of himself. “Could I come in?”

You realise then that he’s getting drenched, and you quickly open the door wider and usher him into your flat, still not quite believing he’s actually here, standing in your hallway, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. You lead him to the sitting room, and throwing your duvet over the back of the couch out of the way, gesture for him to sit down.

“How did you know where I live?” You inwardly wince at your unintentionally sharp tone, and you swear you can see him blush. 

“I may have bullied Daniel into telling me.” He says, apologetically.

“Why?” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?” 

You smile shyly and look away, about to stand and offer him some tea, or at least a towel. He’s still shivering, and dripping on your furniture.

You freeze as he lays his hand gently on your arm. “I wanted to see you again. I wanted to give you this, and maybe ask if you’d like to have dinner with me?” he says, taking your hand, and closing your fingers around the smooth stem of the rose you’d forgotten he’d been holding when he’d looked into your eyes.

You stare down at your little hand enclosed in his, and swallow. “You seem to like roses.”

He chuckles, and you suddenly think that really, there’s no better sound in the world. “My mother is a florist. She taught me all the special meanings behind colours and arrangements, all that kind of stuff.”

Your lips twitch in amusement. “And why would you need to know something like that?”

“What can I say, I was a very romantic teenager.” His blue eyes are sparkling with laughter, and you can’t help but grin widely back at him.

“Did it work? Back when you were a teenager I mean?” You ask, teasing him.

“I don’t know, never tried it out.” He grins. “Is it working now?”

“Tell me what they mean and I’ll let you know. You sent me orange roses at work –It was you who sent me those right?” You ask, suddenly feeling unsure.

“It was. Orange is supposed to symbolise fascination or curiosity, a desire to know more about someone... or just plain desire I guess.” He smirks at your blush, but allows you a moment to recover your composure.

“And this one?” You ask, twirling the stem of the rose between your fingers, raising it to your nose to inhale the sweet perfume.

“Oh, lavender... Well...” He’s stuttering slightly, and it’s quite possibly the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. “A lavender rose is a symbol of falling for someone.”

Your eyes widen, shocked at what he’s just said to you.

“But you don’t even know me!” You stammer.

“I want to.”He says, as he reaches over to trail his finger over your exposed wrist. “You know... you never did answer my question about dinner?” 

He looks up at you from beneath long eyelashes. You look at him then, really look at him, taking in his features, his eyes, the intensity and honesty in his strong gaze. It’s only then you notice his wet hair plastered to his forehead, a single stray lock falling between his eyes, and you realise he must be close to freezing.

“It’s pouring outside,” you say, taking a deep breath. “And I have a quiche in the oven anyway... Why don’t you stay and we’ll eat here?”

He smiles slowly and nods. “That sounds fantastic.”

You stand up, and immediately regret it as your hand slips from his warm grasp. “I’ll just go and check on it, and make some salad to go with it.”

“Can I do anything to help?” He asks.

You nod. “You can go and take a hot shower before you come down with something. I’ll try and root out something for you to wear while your things dry off a bit.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t disagree. “Thank you.”

You lead the way to the bathroom, and leave him there, while you go into your bedroom to try to find something that might fit him. You’d originally thought maybe something belonging to your ex, but then you remember you’d given them all to charity when the mere sight of them had made you feel angry and used. You reluctantly grab your dressing gown from the end of the bed, and knock on the bathroom door.

He opens it slightly, and you catch sight of his naked chest. Your mouth goes instantly dry, and you struggle to tear your eyes away from the tempting sight, the urge to touch him almost overwhelming. Your hands are trembling with restraint as you hand him the dressing gown. 

“This is the only thing I have that might fit you.” You explain, meekly.

He thanks you, and you tell him to give you his wet clothes so you can hang them up to dry. You’re disappointed when you don’t find his boxers in the wet pile as you hang them on the radiator in the hallway, and you have to laugh at yourself. ‘Getting a bit ahead of yourself aren’t you? Calm down, it’s only dinner!’ You remind yourself. 

But you can’t calm down. That little glimpse of his chest, and the scattering of hair on it, have your mind racing. You have to put down the knife in the middle of chopping a tomato, in fear of cutting yourself as your mind wanders to just what he could be doing in your shower right now. You can see his hands moving over his body, aided by slick soap, and you can’t suppress a tiny moan at the thought of his long fingers moving steadily lower.

You place your hands flat on the countertop to steady yourself, breathing heavily. You can’t get the image out of your mind, don’t want to either, but you have to finish preparing the salad before he comes down- wearing your dressing gown. You groan aloud again. ‘Stop. Stop thinking about him, right now! Nothing’s going to happen. It’s just dinner for God’s sake!’

You don’t know how you manage it, but you finally finish cutting up the tomato, adding it to the greens in the dish and tearing up some goat’s cheese to sprinkle on top. You turn to place the bowl on the table- and nearly drop it with a scream as you notice him standing in the doorway, silently watching you.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack!” You exclaim, and he apologises with a smile that you’re sure belies the sentiment.

Your heart is still pounding as you push past him to retrieve your glass of wine from where you left it on the coffee table earlier, needing the liquid courage to steady your shaking hands. You feel the soft cotton of your dressing gown as you brush against him, and you swallow hard as you visualise what must be underneath, the hint of chest peeking out at you, instantly drying your mouth again. You drain the entire glass before you feel confident enough to face him again. 

“Do you feel better now?” You ask, slightly breathlessly.

A shadow of a smirk crosses his face, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, but it’s gone before you can even be really sure you saw it. “Much. Thank you.”

“Would you like a drink? A glass of wine?” You ask, stepping forward to move past him into the kitchen. You stop dead, unconsciously, as you notice a stray drop of water dripping from the end of the hair resting on the back of his neck. You watch it roll slowly down his chest, through the light hair, seemingly on a mission to disappear beneath the soft fabric of the robe. You reach out and catch it on the tip of your finger, running it lightly over his skin and scooping up the offending droplet. 

You gasp as you suddenly realise what you’ve just done. You step back, mouth falling open, and look up at him, eyes wide and panicked. He’s staring at you, blue eyes turned black with the intensity of his gaze, chest heaving as he pants. He takes a step towards you.

And keeps walking, backing you up till your knees hit the arm of the couch, and you suddenly find yourself falling backwards onto the soft cushions. You only have just have time to gasp before he’s over you, and your hands are moving before your brain has even considered what they’re going to do. You tug at the belt of his dressing gown and rip it open, running the palms of your hands over his smooth chest. You swiftly push the soft cotton back over his shoulders and hear it fall to the floor with a low thump.

He leans over you, and you feel his hot breath against your lips, as he holds himself there above you for a moment, just breathing, and then you finally feel him. You moan as his lips touch yours, and it’s soft at first, a caress, but then it turns frantic, his hands moving over your still clothed body as he tries desperately to find bare skin.

Your pulse starts to rush as his fingers find their way beneath your shirt, lightly stroking the soft skin of your waist. He groans as the pads of your fingers rub over his exposed nipples, rolling them roughly between your fingertips as his tongue finally thrusts into your mouth, sliding against your own in a sinfully pleasurable way. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him tighter to your body, the unbearable lust clouding all rational thought. You writhe underneath him, pressing against him and pulling away in waves that soon have you moaning loudly, gasping for breath as he pulls back slightly to draw your shirt over your head, exposing your still bra-clad chest. 

You wonder if you could come from the touch of his fingers alone.

He trails his fingers lightly down your sides and you tilt your head back to give him access to the soft skin of your neck. He reluctantly drags his lips away from your mouth, slowly tracing them over your chin, licking and sucking the sensitive skin, until he finally reaches the delicate arch of your throat and sinks his teeth in suddenly, marking you.

Your nails scratch almost painfully over his nipples, and he moans, raising his head and reaching up to pin your arms above your head, using his strength to hold you down as he decides what next to do with you. You wriggle beneath him, desperate for more contact than he’s giving you. He shifts his weight, grasping both your wrists in one hand so he can teasingly trail his index finger along your neck and down your chest, past your bra, coming to rest tracing gentle circles just above the waistband of your jeans. 

Your breath hitches and you have to close your eyes, head falling limply against the cushions as you shiver beneath him, moaning softly. He leans down to lick at your belly-button, slipping his tongue beneath the rough fabric of your trousers, and sliding it over your exposed hipbone. You can sense his eyes on you, watching your every expression, and you feel the self-satisfied smile curl at his lips as he makes you quiver with pleasure.

You growl at his arrogance as he looks up at you, and wrench your wrists free from his tight grasp, making him sit up in surprise. You push him back until he’s kneeling over your ankles, watching you warily, hoping you haven’t changed your mind. You hold him there for a second, with the palm of your hand flat against his lower chest, watching him watch you, and then you slowly drop your gaze, allowing your other hand to follow it as it trails lower and lower.

He tenses in anticipation, eyes falling shut, and he tilts his head back, a long drawn out moan being ripped from his lungs as your fingers find his hard length, still encased in the dark blue cotton boxers you’d been hoping to find earlier. 

Losing patience with your slow teasing, he grabs your wrist, trying to encourage you to increase the pressure of your fingers on his aching cock. You twist out of his grip again, receiving a low growl in response, and he pushes his hips forward as much as he can with your palm still holding him back. 

You swear you hear him whimper quietly, and your resolve snaps. Your fist closes tightly around the waistband of his boxers and you tug sharply, ripping them from him as the seams give way under the force of your determination. 

'Oh my god…' You think, as you look at him, naked above you, naked and strong and so fucking masculine, and you need him right now. You glance up at his face and gasp at the sheer desire in his eyes, and this time when he takes your little hand and wraps it around his erection, you don’t resist. You stroke him once, lightly squeezing him from root to tip in one smooth movement, and you watch as a clear drop of pre-come oozes from his slit, rubbing a thumb over it and bringing it to your lips as if in a daze. You groan as the sweet, saltiness of him floods your mouth, and his lips are suddenly on yours, tongue darting inside to entwine with your own in a frantic, messy, wet kiss.

You cry out as his large hands descend on your chest, your nipples hardening even more as he roughly rubs them through the flimsy fabric of your bra. He looks down into your face, and you see him smirk even as he tucks a finger beneath the fabric at the very front, and pulls upward. You hear the lace tear, and hurry to rip the straps down your arms so he can fling it away over his shoulder. 

His tongue immediately takes the place of his fingers as he sucks your left nipple into his mouth, rolling the hardened flesh between his teeth, as his hand pinches your other nipple, rubbing his thumb over it soothingly as you arch your back. He pulls back slightly, releasing your now glisteningly wet skin, and turns his attention to your right nipple, nuzzling gently, and lapping at it. 

You shudder as he blows cold air over your chest, one of your arms coming up to encircle his shoulders, pulling him closer, as the other snakes down between you to grasp his hardened member once more. You try to push him back, suddenly overcome with the desire to take him in your mouth, to taste him fully.

He watches, propped up on his elbows, as you shuffle beneath him until your face is level with his crotch. His breath stutters in anticipation as your warm breath reaches his straining cock, the thick length flexing slightly, producing more droplets of pre-come that drip down onto your cheek. You moan as the hot liquid meets your skin, snaking out your tongue to lap it up, and you stretch upwards, neck screaming in protest, to draw his cock into your waiting mouth.

“Fuck yes!” He makes a guttural noise deep in his chest, and pushes himself further in, almost senseless with lust. You encourage him by wrapping your arms around him, hands pressed firmly into the soft flesh of his arse, pulling him deeper into your mouth. You moan continuously, the vibrations sending him hurtling closer and closer to the brink of orgasm, and you gasp as, with a momentous effort, he manages to pull you off his length and haul you back up to lie underneath him, face to face.

He crushes your lips together in a bruising kiss, hands fumbling with the button of your jeans. He breaks the kiss to stand up so he can yank the trousers and underwear from your legs in one single, frenzied movement. The clothes have barely found the floor before he’s on you again, pressing his aching hard-on against your bare flesh, and you spread your legs even wider for him.

You can’t speak, haven’t been able to for a long while, but when he starts to rub against you, his thick cock sliding easily against your heated flesh, aided by the wetness seeping from your core, you whimper. “More. Dear God, more!”

He’s breathing heavily now, looming over you, devouring you with his eyes. “Do you want me?” He pants, voice low and breathless. 

He barely waits to see you nod fiercely, desperately, “YES!” you almost yell, and then he’s shoving inside you, buried to the hilt in a single thrust, and you groan as if you’re in pain, the most pleasurable, wonderful, glorious pain you’ve ever felt. He’s so deep, deeper than you ever thought possible, and you can feel each and every inch of him, pulsing inside you.

He hasn’t moved, and you open your eyes to see him above you, a wicked smirk on his face. The hazy look in his black gaze and the slight flutter of his eyelids tell you he’s feeling exactly as you are, the almost overwhelming, unbearable sensations of finally being inside you, leaving him gasping for breath.

He starts to move, and you swear you see stars. It starts slow, building gradually to what you can already tell will be your most fulfilling sexual experience ever.

He pulls back, almost slipping out, and suddenly thrusts in deeper than before, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix, and you throw your head back and scream. “Oh fuck yes. Yes yes yes YES!” You clench your muscles around him and he groans, long and loud, pulling back and thrusting deeply again and again.

You clamp your legs around his waist, trying to dictate the pace, but he just smiles evilly, pushing them out to the side and lifting them over his shoulders. The new angle of penetration leaves you squealing after each and every thrust as his cock pushes and slides into your core, stimulating pleasure sensors you never realised you had.

He’s so long, and in so deep, and your body is trembling at the onslaught of feelings, and then he does something with his hips, circling them, grinding them into you, deeper and deeper and deeper with every forward surge.

Suddenly you arch up off the couch, your release coming over you unexpectedly. You call out his name, voice cracking and you trail off into a long, extravagant moan. You sink back into the cushions, eyelids fluttering, mouth falling open as the pleasure washes over you, leaving you senseless. 

Shouting his name seems to spur him on even more, and as you return to consciousness, you realise he’s nowhere near done with you yet. “Fuck yes, Alan, more!” You plead with him. He looks at you through the wet hair hanging limply over his forehead, sweat dripping down his face and over his chest and back. He doesn’t speak, merely grunts as his thrusts get rougher, faster. He’s losing control.

He holds your right hand tightly in his, fingers firmly entwined, pressing them into the cushions beside your head. He’s still holding your left leg over his shoulder, opening you up even wider for him to slide inside, leaning over you to press rough, open-mouthed kisses against your lips. He pauses to nip at your throat, bared to him as your tilt your head back to scream towards the ceiling. 

Finally he lets go of your leg, his skilled fingers finding your most sensitive spot and rubbing it expertly, wanting you to come again. With him this time. Your foot hits the cushions, and your toes immediately grip them, curling into the soft fabric so hard that, for a second, you fear you’ll tear it. The thought disappears as you sense the start of your climax, the tingle in the base of your spine, and the spasms that wrack your body as you clench around him again and again, coaxing his release from him.

You moan against his lips, swearing and thrashing, fingers clawing at the cushions beneath you. He thrusts once more and stills, letting out a guttural groan that echoes around the room, and you feel the hot spurts of his release inside you. He shudders, hips still jerking erratically, as your muscles tighten around him, holding him deep inside, milking the last of his orgasm from him.

He collapses on top of you, panting hard, every breath he takes sending little pinpricks racing through your body as his cock softens inside you. You can’t stop shaking, the aftershocks of such an explosive climax still running through your every nerve. Your breath comes in stuttering gasps, and you think you can feel tears pricking the back of your eyes. 

He rolls off you, still trying to catch his breath, and looks at you, forehead creased in confusion. You’re blinking back tears and struggling to breathe, the intensity of the experience overwhelming you. Without a word, he sits up, wrapping an arm beneath your knees and another under your neck, lifting you onto his lap, where you curl up against his chest, craving his warmth. He lays his cheek on top of your head, and gently rocks you back and forth, murmuring soothingly in your ear.

After a while, you start to shiver and he drags the duvet up from where it’s fallen on the floor, and wraps it around you both. You smile and open your eyes, unaware of even closing them in the first place, and press your lips against his collar bone, silently thanking him. 

You feel his lips against your hair, and sigh contentedly, about to snuggle deeper, closer into him, when you suddenly realise something. “Oh my god, the quiche!” You exclaim.

He laughs loudly as you struggle free of the heavy blanket, grabbing your dressing gown off the floor and rushing into the kitchen. You remove the charred remains from the oven as he walks in a few moments later, now clad in his boxers – and place the dish on the countertop, looking away in embarrassment.

He steps closer to you. “It’s ok.” He says. “It’s my fault. I distracted you.”

You can hear the slight smirk in his voice, and you can’t help but laugh with him.

“We can order take-out.” He whispers, softly sweeping your hair away from the back of your neck, and kissing you gently. You shudder as his hot breath tickles your neck, and lean back against him, eyes closing at the soothing sensation.

“Ok.” You murmur, reaching back to run your hands over his thighs, wrists brushing against the material of his boxers. The very stretched material of his boxers. He’s growing hard again, and you smile wickedly, grinding back against him. 

“Shall we order now? What would you like?” You ask, pulling away suddenly and looking up at him, blinking innocently.

He smirks dangerously. “Later.”

He reaches for you, easily picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder. You giggle madly and jokingly pound on his shoulders to make him put you down. He walks swiftly down the corridor in search of your bedroom, finding it just opposite the bathroom he’d been in earlier- and pushes open the door, dropping you gently onto the unmade bed.  
You shuffle backwards to the middle of the mattress, smiling at him, and he slowly crawls up over you, pressing you softly into the sheet, until your lips meet in the sweetest kiss you’ve shared yet.

You look down at the rose in your hand, smiling at the memories it invoked, and glance up to see him watching you with a curious look on his face. He returns the smile, rubbing his large thumb gently over your lips. “What’re you smiling at?”

You hold the rose up, twirling it between your fingers. “Just memories.” 

He smiles and kisses your fingers. “Good ones?”

“Very.” Your smile turns seductive, “Memories of you turning up on my doorstep, dripping wet, with a rose just like this one...”

He chuckles. “Ah... This memory wouldn’t happen to end in you being ravished mercilessly would it?” His smile turns devilish, and he turns to place the breakfast tray safely on the floor.

“Don’t they all end like that dear?” You reply, lying back into the soft pillows with a smirk as he climbs on top of you, leaning down to nip and kiss your neck gently.

He mumbles against your skin. “Mmmhmm, I guess they do.”

You run your hand over his chest, scratching at the light dusting of hair, and wind it round his neck, pulling him closer. You open your legs to let him settle more comfortably between them, as his hands come to rest on your hips, pulling you further down into the bed beneath the covers.

You hook an ankle around his waist, encouraging him to press his weight against you, loving the feel of his body pressed against you from the tip of your toes up to where his lips are buried in your neck, sucking the skin to a possessive pink tone. Your rub your foot over his arse, grinding up against him, and he pulls back with a breathless gasp. “Are you sure? After last night...” He looks deep into your eyes. “I don’t want to pressure you.”

“I’m sure.” You say firmly, dragging him down into a forceful kiss, your tongue sweeping over his open mouth. “Maybe this time it’ll happen for us.” You whisper against his lips.

He pulls back immediately, searching your face.

“Love...” He sighs, “I thought we’d talked about this.”

“We have, but...” You say, eyes pleading with him.

“I thought we were happy with just the two of us?”

“We are!” You reply, a hint of desperation creeping into your voice. “We are. But maybe… this time…’’

He looks unconvinced, so you rub your hand soothingly over the nape of his neck, tugging lightly on the ends of his hair. He tilts his head back, eyes falling shut, as you massage away the sudden tension in his shoulders. You lean up to kiss his throat, working your way up to his lips. You’re both on your knees now, and you practically crawl in his lap. “Please.” You purr once more.

His lips find your own, his hands cradling your face and holding you still as he plunders your mouth with his tongue. It’s never mattered how many times you’ve done this, or how old you’ve both grown- when he holds you like this, and kisses you like you’re the only person in the world, his world, you still feel like the twenty-two year old girl you were the first time, when he crashed into your life and turned everything upside down, making himself at home there, irreplaceable, in a matter of weeks.

He pushes himself forward with his toes, crawling over you, and you lie back on the mattress, his weight settling heavily and securely on top of you. He pauses, and pushes your hair out of your face. 

“Just don’t let yourself get too hopeful ok? I don’t want you to be upset, ever, but especially when I’m not here.”

“I won’t, I promise.” You attempt to pull him closer, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of your mind that’s telling you to ask him not to leave tomorrow. You know it’s not fair, wanting to be with him all the time, knowing the tour is something he needs to do- for his own sake and for his fans. 

He raises an eyebrow, looking at you with a stern expression. That’s not a promise you can keep, and you both know it. You tug at his waist and he eventually relents, chuckling at your insistence and leaning in to nuzzle the sensitive skin of your neck. He works his way up to your earlobe slowly, nibbling and sucking it between his lips.

He always seems to know exactly what you need, and despite your assurances to the contrary, you’re still feeling fragile after the previous night, needing him to love you right now.

His fingers trail over your waist, finding the bottom of the tshirt you’re still wearing, and pulling it slowly over your head, dropping it onto the floor. You clasp your hands behind his back, trapping him against you, and you just kiss for a while, lips moving gently together, tongues barely sneaking out of your own mouths.

There’s no rush –you’ve taken time off work to spend the day with him before he leaves for the States in the morning, the start of a whole month apart. He pulls back to breathe, eyes hooded with desire, and you get the feeling you won’t be seeing much beyond the walls of the bedroom for at least the next few hours.

You draw him back down, but after a single light kiss, he moves away from your lips, slipping down your body to lick at your nipples, swiftly switching between the two, until you’re a quivering, moaning heap beneath him. He moves lower still, and your breath hitches in anticipation, as his talented tongue flicks over your most sensitive skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating from your core.

He glances up through his eyelashes, watching as you bite your lip and tilt your head back, a breathless moan escaping your mouth. You lift your hips slightly, encouragingly, and he obliges your silent plea, gently spreading you open with his fingers, tongue darting in to lap at your hot wetness.

He’s still watching you. Your hands clench and unclench in the sheets beside you as your body shivers and shakes, your chest heaving as you whimper and groan his name aloud. You unconsciously move to grip his hair between your fingers, forcing his tongue deeper, and his nose bumps against you, sending stars dancing through your vision. He pulls away slightly, panting heavily, his hot breath scalding your delicate skin, and leans down to nibble on the tight bundle of nerves.

You arch off the bed with a scream, pulling his hair painfully, and as you shudder through your climax, he continues his assault with his tongue, drawing out the experience, making it last for what seems like hours.

He nuzzles your stomach as you catch your breath, kissing his way up to his favourite part of your body, your neck, pressing his lips against the skin over your still pounding pulse. His hot breath tickles your ear as he groans. “God you’re beautiful.”

You smile up at him, groping for his hand, and when you find it, you simply raise it to your mouth, kissing each finger individually, and nestling your cheek into his large palm. You rest there for a moment, unmoving, gazing up at him lovingly, until he leans down, tilting your head to the side and pressing his tongue between your lips in a tender kiss.

He rests his forehead against your own, and you feel his hand trail down your body, lightly caressing your sides. He grasps his erection in his fist, stroking it once, twice- and, lining himself up, pushes gently inside you, holding himself there to allow you to adjust to his size.

You groan simultaneously, revelling in the feel of each other, as you have done each and every time in your twenty-one years together. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him close, and he rocks gently against you, barely leaving your body. It’s not about fucking, this moment, not about penetration, not about harder or faster or deeper. It’s just about you and him, and the incredible depth of feeling between you, the love, the trust, and the years you’ve spent getting to this point.

He sits up, leaning back on his heels, and gently pulls you with him, settling you comfortably on his lap. You hook your arms around his neck for balance, shifting slightly, and gasp at the new angle, his cock brushing against every nerve in your body, or so it seems. His hands come up to cup your face, drawing you close so he can kiss you deeply, pulling back when you try to reciprocate, licking teasingly at your lips, before giving in and allowing your tongue to twine with his own. You kiss passionately, breathing low moans directly into each other’s mouths.

You close your eyes, leaning your head back and gasping as he thrusts harder than before. He moves his hands to your hips, steadying you, burying his face in your neck as his speed increases. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders as you press him closer to you, your nipples brushing against his chest and tiny pinpricks of pleasure radiate slowly through your body.

His mouth moves up to kiss your lips again, and you lightly massage his tongue with your own, as your body shivers against his. You lie back, supporting yourself on your elbows, and his lips leave yours, trailing down along your neck as he takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking gently, before moving over to give the other the same attention.

He continues his long, smooth thrusting, and you moan whenever he brushes against your more sensitive areas. It seems to last for hours. You can feel your orgasm building, travelling teasingly slowly through your body, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin, every nerve ending tingling.

He suddenly pulls you upright, crushing you against his chest, his lips descending on yours with an intense, blinding passion he rarely shows. You kiss deeply, almost desperately, and as you both reach the peak of your pleasure, you press even closer each other. You feel his heat explode inside you, and whimper. 

His body eventually stops shuddering as it relaxes after your combined climax, and he eases you down onto the mattress, keeping you tight in his embrace. You roll onto your side, resting your head in the crook of his neck. He’s still inside you, showing no signs of pulling out, and he seems content to stay there forever.

He places your leg over his hip and turns onto his back, until you’re half-draped across his chest. His fingers trail through your hair, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at him, caressing his jaw and pulling him down into a tender kiss.

You stay like that for the rest of the afternoon, carefully re-exploring every inch of each other, wanting to memorise every single detail before your month long separation.

***

You say your farewells in the privacy of home, as you always have, both of you too guarded and protective of your privacy to have such a personal moment in the public glare of an airport. Even when had he had left on tour with the band, you’d never gone to the airport to wave at the plane as it left you behind.

You stand in the hall, waiting for him to come downstairs. His bags are already lying beside the door, ready to be packed into the back of the car when it arrives. You hear the crunch of gravel outside, and peer through the frosted glass of the window to see Peddy, his tour manager, sitting behind the wheel. He waves at you and you return the gesture, turning as you hear familiar footsteps descending the stairs.

“Is that Peddy?” He asks, picking up his suit jacket from where it hangs on the banisters, and slipping it over his shoulders.

You nod, stepping closer to him and smoothing down his lapels, letting your hands rest on his chest as his arms come up to encircle your waist. He hugs you tight, rubbing your back soothingly as you bury your face against his chest. You take deep breaths, inhaling his scent, trying to absorb as much of his presence as you can to make the next few weeks bearable.

He lets you hold him, content to keep you in his embrace. Eventually you tilt your head back to look up at him. He smiles and leans down to press his lips firmly against yours. You stay like that for several long minutes, until you step back with a loud sigh. 

“It’s only a few weeks.” He says, cupping your face, running his thumb over your cheekbones and bending down to kiss the tip of your nose. 

“I know…” You reply, standing back to allow him to go open the door and wave to Peddy. “Doesn’t mean I won’t miss you the moment you shut the door.”

He turns immediately. “Of course.” He replies with a tiny smirk, walking back to wrap you in his arms again. “I miss you every second you’re not with me.” He says softly into your ear, his lips brushing against your earlobe.

There’s a loud thud as Peddy throws his bags into the boot of the car, and you can’t help but laugh at his alarmed expression as he pulls back to look, hoping there was nothing delicate in the small bag. “Well, time to go.” He looks down at you. “Are you sure you’ll be ok?”

You know he’s referring to the last few days, your fragility. “I’ll be fine.” You reply, and you mean it. He looks at you carefully for a long while, and finally nods, seemingly satisfied that he found whatever he was looking for in your gaze. “Yeah, I think you will.” 

His arms are still securely wrapped around your waist, and he moves them up your back, tugging you closer. He holds you tight to his chest, his nose buried in your hair and you feel his lips moving against your scalp as he whispers something too quietly for you to hear.

He finally pulls away, smiling down at you, and turns to leave, putting on his sunglasses. “How do I look?” He asks, grinning.

You make a show of looking him up and down. “Hmm not bad.” You tell him, “Just one little thing...” You step towards him and reach up to undo his top two shirt buttons, pulling the material apart just so. “There. Now you’re irresistible.” You lean in and press your lips to the newly exposed skin.

He laughs and kisses the top of your head. “What would I do without you, love?”

“It’s either that or put up with you phoning me in the middle of the night complaining that the girls don’t fall at your feet the way they used to.”

“You are one of a kind, you know that?” He smiles, shaking his head, taking hold of your hand and bringing it to his lips.

You shrug, a shyly confident smile creeping over your face. “I know you’ll always come back to me in the end.”

“Always.” He agrees, and with a final deep, lingering kiss he pulls away. “I’ll phone you when we land.”

“Have a safe flight.” You walk with him to the door, and only then do you let go of his hand. He gets into the car, and you can’t resist shouting to Peddy, “Make sure he behaves himself!”

You see him laugh as Peddy waves to you, starting the engine. You watch and wave until the car has disappeared into the distance, and you stand there for a while, staring after it. It’s started to rain by the time you turn and go back inside.

*** 

One Month Later...

You slide the pavlova onto the bottom shelf of the fridge and shut the door with a satisfied smile. ‘Well that’s dessert taken care of. Now on to the main course.’

Most of it is already done. You’d known you would have very little time to prepare your special welcome home dinner for him today, the extra time you’d had to spend in work covering for an ill colleague upsetting your plans. You’d hoped to spend the evening preparing everything just so at a leisurely pace, but in the event, you’d compensated for the lack of time by doing as much as you could early that morning. You’d been blinking blearily and still half asleep- but you’d known it would all be worth it the second he walked through that door.

You have the sauce sitting on the countertop, gradually warming back up to room temperature after its night spent in the fridge. All you really have left to do is cook the chicken pieces and pasta, and prepare the salad to go with them.

You smile happily, wiping down the countertop and laying out the cucumbers, lettuce and tomatoes, finding a sharp enough knife and starting to chop them into even pieces. The past month has flown by, but you’ve still hated every moment of it, wishing he was here, or that you’d at least been able to fly over to join him for a few days. But he’s coming home today, in a few hours in fact, and you can’t help the wide grin that’s been on your face since you woke up this morning, excited in a way that’s normally reserved for Christmas morning.

You gasp loudly, dropping the knife, as you look down to see blood welling from a deep cut in your finger. “Damn it!” You exclaim, grabbing a paper towel and wrapping it around the wound. The blood seeps through in no time. You quickly turn on the tap and wait for it to run cold, holding your injured finger under the stream and watching the red-tinted water swirl away down the drain.

You frown as you watch it, the sight of the crimson liquid reminding you of something... something important...

Your eyes widen and you quickly cross the room to the calendar hanging on the wall, leaving the tap running aimlessly. You count back the days to when you were last due, and your mouth goes dry as you realise you’re just over two weeks late. ‘Oh my god.’ you think, clapping a hand over your mouth as your breathing starts to quicken. You clutch behind you for a chair, dragging a stool out from under the breakfast bar, and sit down heavily.

Your free hand moves to your stomach.

You’re on your feet before you know it, grabbing your keys and purse from the table in the hallway, and rushing out to your car, not even remembering to take a jacket to keep out the November chill. 

‘I need to be sure,’ you think as you throw the car into gear and race down the driveway.

The trip into town is over in record time and you park in the first space you come across, almost forgetting to lock the car in your haste to reach the pharmacy. You know your way around the shop like the back of your hand -you’ve lived nearby and shopped here for fifteen years, and you can’t count the number of times you’ve come in here on this exact same mission before. You almost daren’t let yourself hope that this time, maybe, just maybe...

You buy two packs, the kind with three tests in them, just to be sure, and you share a nervous grin with the shop assistant as you hand over the correct change. You practically snatch the bag as she hands it to you and you can barely acknowledge her “Good luck!” as you rush back to your car, intent on breaking any and all speed limits to get home as quickly as possible. 

When you get home, the enormity of what you’re about to do suddenly hits you. You sit in the car for a long while, staring at the brown paper bag in your hands. “What if I’m wrong? What if it’s just another false alarm?” You say to yourself, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth. You can’t say the next thought aloud. ‘Can I handle it if it turns out to be a mistake? Am I strong enough? Or should I wait for Alan to get home first?’ 

You close your eyes tightly, remembering all the previous times you’d been so sure you were finally pregnant again, only to have it all crumble around you when you’d done the test and no blue lines had appeared. The disappointment in Alan’s eyes, the sad smile as he comforted you, hurt you deeply each and every time, and you didn’t want to put him through that pain ever again. 

‘No. I can’t do that to him again. I have to do it on my own.’

Nodding your head firmly at your decision, you open the car door and get out, locking it behind you and quickly making your way into the house. You pause to take a deep breath, clutching the bag convulsively in your hand, before walking slowly up the stairs and into the ensuite bathroom. You shut the door firmly behind you and open the bag, tipping the contents out onto the countertop.

*** 

You’re still sitting on the closed toilet lid when you faintly hear the front door open and you hear his voice, calling your name. You don’t answer, can’t answer, as you sit staring at the cream tiles on the wall opposite, waiting for him to come to you.

It takes a while but he finally finds you, his voice getting steadily louder and more worried as he approaches the bedroom. You struggle to stifle a sob, the noise echoing around the small room, and he must have heard you because suddenly the door is flung open and he’s standing in front of you.

“Love, what’s wrong? What’s happened?!” He says as he steps towards you, forehead furrowed in concern.

You can’t speak, throat convulsing with every wave of emotion that flows through you.

You glance up at him with tear-filled eyes and wordlessly hold out the thin white stick, burying your face in your hands as he takes it from you. “Oh love...” He says, face already settling into that disappointed smile, before he properly looks at the test, and sees the clear blue line.

You wipe at the moisture on your cheeks and look up at him, smiling widely through your tears, and you half-sob, half-laugh as he looks down at the test again to make sure his eyes haven’t tricked him. 

His mouth drops open and he stares at you, struggling to speak. “Is it...? Are you...?”

You nod, lips quivering with overwhelming joy, and gesture to the five other tests lying on the counter beside him, all displaying that positive blue line, your miracle. He picks them all up, looking intently at each of them, and you can see the brilliant smile spread across his face. He puts them down carefully, and moves closer to you.

He sinks to his knees in front of you without a word, slowly unbuttoning your blouse and pushing it wide open. He licks his lips, a nervous tic, and lays his hands gently on your stomach, almost reverently. He can’t take his eyes off you.

You laugh quietly, voice shaking with emotion, and rest your hands on top of his. He leans forward to press his lips firmly against your stomach, and stays there, just gently caressing your skin for what seems like hours. You can feel his lips moving, hear him murmuring something against you, and then he lifts his head to look at you, eyes glittering with unshed tears. 

“I love you.” He whispers, voice cracking. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

He punctuates each sentence with a kiss, covering every inch of your exposed stomach with his lips as the moisture finally spills forth down his cheeks.

You lean forward, resting your head on his, and he gently entwines your fingers, still resting on your abdomen. He reaches up to wrap his free hand around your neck, pulling you to him, and closes his eyes as he presses your foreheads together.

Suddenly he laughs, his eyelids springing open, and the joy on his face leaves you breathless. Finally! You’ve finally been able to give him the one thing you’ve both dreamed of all these years. He presses his lips against yours in the most passionate kiss you’ve ever shared, licking at your lips and sliding his tongue gently into your mouth.

He pulls away to stare down at your stomach again, stunned disbelief written on every inch of his face as he trails his fingers over your skin again and again. “Is this real?” He asks.

“Yes. It’s really real.” You nod, biting your lip, and stroking your hand through his hair. “It’s finally happening.”

You try to ignore the little voice in the back of your head telling you you’ve got a long way to go yet, listing all the things that could possibly go wrong. You shake your head sharply to clear it, and pull him up to kiss him again, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him tightly.

He hooks a hand under your knees and stands up, carrying you to the bedroom, and deposits you softly in the middle of the large bed. He crawls up behind you, and you lean back into his chest, sighing contentedly as his hands come to rest on your stomach, stroking softly, until you fall into a deep slumber, a happy smile on both your faces.

Your romantic dinner lies unfinished and forgotten in the kitchen.

*** 

Eight Months Later...

“Oh!”

You sit up in bed, hand immediately going to your swollen belly. Nothing happens, and you begin to think the dull, throbbing pain was just a dream. You lie back down, looking over at him sleeping peacefully beside you, glasses still perched on his nose. The lamp is still on and the book he was reading still rests on his stomach. He must have only dropped off a little while ago.

You reach up to remove his glasses, laying them on the bedside cabinet and flicking off the light. Suddenly, you gasp as the pain returns. It’s not a stabbing pain, more an insistent spasming of the muscles at the base of your spine. It’s more uncomfortable than anything else, and you grimace, shifting to try find a more agreeable position. 

You settle for a moment, the pain abating. It’s not easy to lie on your side these days, your roundness making most, if not all of your preferred sleeping positions virtually impossible. At least Alan can still spoon you though, nine months without that would have been nigh on unbearable. You wince as your back spasms again, breathing heavily through your nose. It’s stronger this time, and no amount of shuffling about seems to relieve it.

Groaning quietly, you sit upright again, leaning as far forward as you can in an attempt to ease the tight muscles in your lower back. They all seem to be clenching at the same time, and you desperately want to curl yourself forwards and stretch, but you can’t. Your swollen stomach is in the way.

You crawl up onto your knees, one hand wrapped protectively around your bump. You whimper as the spasms get worse, clenching your fists in the sheets, and resting your forehead against them. You stretch like a cat, arching your back, and cry out as a particularly strong cramp forces a few tears from the corners of your tightly closed eyes. You’re frightened.

He’s awake now, sitting up beside you, his hand resting protectively on your upper back, rubbing in gentle circles. “Love? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It hurts.” You sob, looking up at him with wide, scared eyes. “It’s too soon, I still have three weeks to go.” You shut your eyes again as another wave of pain washes over you. “Am I..? Is there..?”

He reaches over to quickly flick on the lamp. “No, you’re not bleeding.” You can hear the unspoken ‘yet’ hanging in the air between you.

You cry out again, louder, as the cramps get more intense. He sits behind you, pulling you back to lean against him, and wraps his arms around you, hands resting heavily, comfortingly, on your swollen stomach. His soothing strokes do little to calm you, the fear and the memories of the last time you’d experienced these sensations overwhelming you. Realising that last time the pain had been a thousand times sharper and more intense, you cling onto that thought like a lifeline- a tiny ray of hope as you tell yourself that this time round, the feeling is different.

You moan, arching your back, and press your head back into his shoulder, as he leans down to kiss your forehead. You’re shaking, but it’s more from terror than actual pain. Your hand finds his on your stomach, and he entwines your fingers, squeezing tight. “I’m calling the hospital.” He says calmly, but you can hear the slight tremor in his voice.

His voice only registers faintly in the back of your mind, as your brain provides you with crystal clear images and sounds of that fateful night eighteen years ago. He sounds desperate, and scared.

“Yes, yes... She’s having contractions, but she’s only at thirty-six weeks...” He glances down at you writhing on the bed in front of him, wincing as your fingernails dig painfully into his hand. “I don’t know, maybe five, seven minutes apart?” His breathing quickens, panic setting in more and more as time passes. “I really don’t think I should wait to bring her in, the obstetrician said we should come in at the slightest hint of anything as she’s already miscarried once... Yes... Placental abruption... ”

There’s a slight pause as the receptionist pulls up your records on the computer in front of her. Alan squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for her to answer. When she finally does, her voice is serious, urging him to get you to a hospital as soon as possible. 

He quickly hangs up the phone, and gets out of bed, running to the wardrobe where you’ve stashed a bag all ready for just such an event. Even if you weren’t expecting to need it for another month, you’d felt it was best to be prepared. He quickly throws on his jeans and a shirt, and hurries back to the bed to help you up. “Can you walk, love?”

You nod, biting your lip, and pull yourself to your feet. Almost immediately you’re hit with another spasm, wrenching a strangled scream from your throat, and all the strength goes out of your legs. He catches you before you fall, and lays you back on the bed, helping you put your arms through the sleeves of your dressing gown as he supports you with his free hand. He stands up again, scooping you easily into his arms, despite your added weight. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He says, as you wrap your arms tightly around his neck. 

He makes his way slowly down the stairs and out to the car, stopping briefly to set you down on the stairs as he runs to open the doors. You try to focus on your breathing, slowing it down, but it’s not working. Every single twinge of pain transports you back to the excruciating agony of losing your first baby. The contractions are coming faster now, and stronger, and by the time he comes back to lift you out to the car, you can barely see through the tears. 

He kicks the front door shut without a second glance.

He settles you on the back seat, and for a moment, in between the waves of pain, you just look at each other. His lips curl into the tiniest, sweetest smile, and he squeezes your hand gently, leaning into the car to press his lips against yours. Your hand snakes around the back of his neck and holds him there when he tries to pull away. Your body contracts again and your fingers claw into his skin, tugging sharply at his hair as you throw your head back and groan loudly. “Alan! Hurry..!”

He practically leaps into the front seat, hands shaking so badly he can barely get the key into the ignition. He manages to put the car into reverse, looking over his shoulder to smile at you anxiously as he does so, and quickly drives down the long laneway to the main road. “Slow down!” You groan, as you hit a pothole, the sudden jolt sending a new spasm of pain jolting through your stomach.

He keeps his eyes on the road for the most part, glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds to reassure himself that you’re alright. He talks to you constantly; letting you know exactly where you are, asking how you are, and his voice does soothe you somewhat. The familiarity, the protectiveness of his tone, is reassuring.

You feel a sudden wetness between your legs and scream, the sensation so horrifyingly familiar after years of nightmarish memories. The car swerves dangerously across the road as he swings round to see what’s wrong. You’re sobbing uncontrollably now, the fear and the pain completely overwhelming you.

He reaches a hand back to you, and you grab it, almost crushing it with the force of your grip. “Love, we’re almost there, we’re almost there! Just hold on a few more minutes.”

All at once your body is hit with the uncontrollable urge to push, and you know you’re not going to make it to the hospital. “Alan! Alan, pull over!” You groan, fighting your body’s instincts.

“What is it, what’s wrong?!” He asks, frantically meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror. Concern and panic vie for supremacy in his voice, and the look on your face convinces him to just do as you ask.

He pulls over into a gateway, and twists around to look at you. Your hand is pressed heavily on your stomach, and he instinctively knows what’s happening. He jumps out of the car, and wrenches the back door open to give you some more room. He takes hold of your hand, still lying on your stomach, and rubs his thumb gently over it. 

He can feel the next contraction tear through your body. “Jesus!” He says breathlessly, perching on the edge of the seat between your feet.

Pulling out his phone, he quickly calls for an ambulance, swearing as the reception dies. He dials again and gets through. He speaks swiftly, telling the operator where you are, and groaning when they tell him it will take them at least half an hour to get to you. 

“We don’t have half an hour! The baby’s comi-” The reception dies again, and you’re both suddenly very alone, at the side of the road in the early morning sunshine. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he exclaims, slamming a hand on the bonnet in frustration and near panic.

You watch him stand up and pace back and forth through the open door, groaning through the desire to bear down and push, the contractions less painful and more frequent now. 

“Alan...” He stops and rushes back to you at your low moan. “Alan, you’ll have to do it. I can’t stop it, it’s happening now!”

“I don’t know how to deliver a baby!” He replies, and you realise that he sounds more panicked than you.

“Please! You have to!” You throw your head back and cry out as your muscles clench again.

He looks at you blankly for a minute, mouth hanging open in disbelief, before he pulls himself together and nods. He knows you need him now, and whatever his uncertainties, he’ll just have to put them to one side and focus on you. “Ok.” He breathes. 

He leans over you to press a kiss to your lips, and pulls back, lifting your left leg with shaking hands, and bracing it against the edge of the front seat. You tug at the hem of your nightdress, bunching it up around your waist, and for a second, all your fear and trepidation disappear. You feel no embarrassment at him seeing you like this, sweat-soaked and tear-stained, exposed, because it’s him, it’s Alan, and there’s no one you’d rather have with you at a time like this.

He’s watching you, and you exchange a nervous smile, before another spasm wracks through you and you scream, groping for his hand, and gripping it tightly. “ALAN!”

“I’m here love, I’m here. Remember what the midwife said? Let your body tell you when it’s ready to push. Just go with it, don’t fight it.” He raises your tightly entwined hands to his lips and kisses them gently. “Don’t panic, and don’t be scared, I’m right here.”

You whimper and nod, his steady eye contact calming you somewhat. You concentrate on your breathing, in and out, slowly, and when the next contraction hits, you clamp down on his hand and push hard. You reach your other hand over your head and brace it against the car door, holding onto the handle to support yourself as your back arches.

The wave passes and you collapse back against the seat, panting. He rests his free hand on your belly, stroking it tenderly, and you can hear him speaking low words of encouragement. Whether they’re meant for you or the baby, you’re not entirely sure.

He looks up at you then, blue eyes alight with nervous excitement. “You’re doing great. You’re fantastic, keep going. Break my hand if you need to.”

You’re tired, so tired, and suddenly your mind doesn’t want to listen to your body’s urge to push. It wants to sleep, it wants to pull away and curl up and rest. It keeps replaying memories of the last time you’d done this, and the silence that followed. 

He frowns in confusion as you shake your head. “No... I can’t, I can’t push anymore.”

“Yes, you can!” He says firmly. He crawls up the narrow space between the seats to kneel at your head, and using his free hand, tilts your face to look at him. “You can do this. You are doing this, love. Don’t give up on me now.”

He leans down to rest his forehead against your own, looking deep into your eyes. “Please love. I know you can do this.”

You struggle to stifle a sob, and close your eyes. He strokes your hair gently, murmuring soothing, supportive words in your ear, and when the next contraction hits, you really have no choice but to push. Your natural instinct kicks in again, and you let out a long groan as you push hard, determined to not let him down.

“That’s my girl.” He whispers into your hair, before scrambling back down to kneel between your feet, making sure everything’s alright. You clamp your hand around his fingers and he inhales deeply, surprised at the strength of your grip. He looks back down between your legs.

You hear him gasp suddenly. “Oh my god!”

“Don’t fucking say that! ‘Oh my god’ what?!” You ask desperately, sheer terror lacing every word.

“I can see her! I can see her head!” He lifts his head, eyes wide with wonder, and looks up at you, squeezing your hand encouragingly. “You’re doing great love, just a little more.”

You nod, and take a deep breath, waiting for your body to tell you when to push again. Another wave of contractions hit, and you bear down, screwing your eyes shut and screaming. It all happens very quickly after that. You feel the baby’s head crown and emerge fully, and hear Alan’s quietly amazed gasp as he supports it. Next come the shoulders, uncomfortably tight as your skin stretches unbearably to allow them freedom. Suddenly it’s all over, the little torso and short, stubby legs slithering free surprisingly quickly.

And then, silence.

He’s staring down at her with an expression somewhere between wonder and terrified disbelief. You stop breathing.

'This can’t be happening again. Not again!'

Time slows down, and you watch dazedly as he turns your baby over, lying her tiny form along his forearm. He runs his fingers carefully over her nose, clearing away any mucus, and bends down, gently opening her little pink mouth and breathing into it, slowly and evenly.

He rubs his fingers gently over her chest, encouraging her to breathe, and you lie back on the seat, closing your eyes to try hold back the tears as more time passes without a sound. Your breath hitches and you try to stifle a desperate sob, not wanting your own voice to obscure any tiny sound, the slightest breath of your beloved child.

Suddenly your eyes shoot open in shock, realising you haven’t actually made a sound. 

She has.

She’s not just breathing now, she’s wailing, her little chest heaving. You sit up and meet Alan’s gaze, noticing that his eyes are red and watering, as are your own. He carefully leans over to lay your daughter on your chest, not wanting to risk tugging on the umbilical cord that still joins her little stomach to your gently spasming body, residual contractions telling you that your job isn’t quite finished yet.

You open the buttons of your nightdress so you can feel her against your skin, her warmth.

“My baby,” You whisper, looking down at her and pressing a kiss to the tiny patch of dark hair on her head. You don’t even notice the remnants of sticky fluid on her skin, most of it having been wiped off on Alan’s shirt as he’d held her. He somehow manages to manoeuvre his way inside the car and perches beside you on the seat, wrapping his arms around you and laying your head on his shoulder as you both gaze down at your baby girl.

You hear him sniff, and turn to see tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. “Our baby,” You say, leaning up to kiss him. “Our little girl, finally.”

“Finally.” He replies, reaching up to tuck a curl of hair behind your ear. “I’m so proud of you...”

You settle into his chest, leaning against him, and his arm tightens around you. Neither of you can keep your hands off her, needing the constant reassurance that everything is ok, that’s she’s really here, healthy, and perfect. His large fingers skitter across her cheeks, mapping out her features, imprinting her into his brain forever. She has your finger grasped firmly in her little fist, no intention of letting go anytime soon.

"Ten perfect fingers, ten tiny toes" he whispers in awe, the last thing either of you say before you both fall silent, content to just listen to your daughter’s tiny cries in wonder.

A few minutes later, you finally hear the shrill siren of the ambulance. It pulls up behind the car, and a paramedic jumps out and rushes over to you. He sticks his head in the door and chuckles. “Typical. We’re always just too late.” 

Alan helps you to sit up, and opens the other back door, stepping out and moving round to the other side of the car to talk with the second paramedic, who wants to know exactly what happened, and if there was any problems.

The first paramedic perches in the doorway to check you and the baby over. “Hello Mrs Wilder- hello sweetheart!" He smiles, looking down at your baby. "I’m James- I’m a paramedic. Did everything go ok? No dramas?”

“It was fine. A bit scary.” You admit. “She didn’t breathe at first, but Alan gave her mouth to mouth.”

“Ok, well the doctors will give her a good check up when we get to the hospital, just to be sure. She looks perfect to me though.” He says, bending down to check your daughter’s breathing. Satisfied, he smiles up at you, slipping a cuff over your arm to take your blood pressure. 

“Yeah, she does.” You whisper dreamily, beaming down at her. She shifts slightly, tightening her fist around your finger, and the movement tugs on the cord, reminding you that your work isn’t quite done yet.

“Have you passed the placenta yet?” James asks. “Ah, I see you haven’t. No worries, there’s still blood flowing through the umbilical cord. It’s better not to cut it until it stops pulsing anyway.”

You look down at it for the first time, and notice the faint throbbing against your skin. “Oh.”

A stretcher is wheeled to the car, and you somehow manage to shuffle on to it; James helping you out of the car, while Alan leans in to hold the baby, careful not to pull on the cord. He gently lays your daughter in your arms, and you cuddle her against your chest again. Your stretcher is quickly wheeled back over to the ambulance and loaded inside.

Alan climbs in beside you, and the half hour trip to the hospital passes in a blur.

***

An hour later, you’re settled in a cosy, private hospital suite. The doctors have finally stopped bustling about; cleaning both you and the baby up, double checking to make sure everything is exactly as it should be, weighing, and doing the tests that are usually performed on newborns. They tell you all you need to know: she’s perfect.

You passed the placenta in the ambulance on the way, and you watched with tear-filled eyes as Alan cut the cord, pride and joy evident in his posture and expression. He’d been left to phone your families and friends while you were getting cleaned up, cradling your daughter in his arms as he shared the good news. You could hear him laughing happily as he told them the unusual circumstances, and the pride when he mentioned that he’d had to deliver the baby himself.

Now you’re just lying curled up in your bed, Alan stretched out beside you with his arm around your waist, holding you close. He leans down to whisper soothingly in your ear as you both gaze down at your little girl, completely lost in the moment, your heart almost aching with joy.

You rest a hand around the back of his neck, toying with the soft hair, your cheeks heating with a light blush as you lean up to kiss him tenderly. You pull back slowly, licking at his lips, and settle back down into the soft sheets, watching the baby clench and unclench her fist in his shirt.

“How did you know it was a girl?” You ask curiously, looking up at him with a smile. “Before she even came out you said ‘her’.”

“I didn’t. It was just a feeling.”He grins at you, looking back down at your daughter sleeping in his arms. “Just a feeling.”

“Have you decided on a name?” You ask, stroking a finger down his cheek, and laying your head on his shoulder. You’d decided after your first scan that you didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, either of you, but you had also asked him to pick the name, to surprise you with it. He’d done the same with your first pregnancy, and it had felt right to do it for him this time around.

He nods, and you sit up, carefully, so as not to jolt the baby in his arms, and watch as he smiles down at her. She yawns, scrunching up her tiny pink face, and blinks, sleepy blue eyes gazing right up at him. 

“Hello Rose.” 

You swear she smiles.

You glance up to see him watching you, waiting for your reaction, and you smile. “It’s perfect.”

A happy gurgling comes from between you, and he leans over to rest his forehead against yours. “I love you.” He says, and looks down at Rose. “I love you too. Both of you. More than anything. You are everything to me.”

You can barely speak through the emotion. “We love you too. And we always will.’’

THE END.


	2. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise visit whilst on tour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timestamp to Stjarna
> 
> Written April 2011.

Miami, 1990.

You’d just managed to drop off to sleep, when a loud thump on the hotel room door drew you back to semi-wakefulness. Half-opening an eye, you wait, raising an eyebrow as whoever it is attempts to insert the key into the lock. You hear the jangle of the keys, and muffled swearing, as they’re dropped to the floor with a dull thud, and you can’t help but smile. Rolling partway onto your back, you still your breathing, listening intently as the person on the other side tries again. You feel your adrenaline racing in anticipation, the sound of metal scratching against wood reaching your ear as the lock evades him, once, twice, again.

It take four attempts before the key slides home and the door opens, light from the hallway filling the room for a brief moment as he stumbles in, staggering into the wall. The door swings shut behind him, and you try hard not to make a sound, your stomach filled with butterflies as you finally breathe in his familiar scent.

You hear a low groan, and two thumps as he manages to tug his boots off and fling them somewhere on the floor- somewhere he’s almost guaranteed to trip over them in the morning. The next thing you know, he’s collapsing onto the end of the bed, right on top of your legs, and you stifle a yelp of surprise.

A hand reaches out to grope your calf, and you grin at the muffled “What the fuck?”

You stay silent.

The hand reaches further, trailing over your knee to your thigh, and you hear the faint rustling of the sheets as he pushes himself onto his knees, following his hand’s lead. He moves slowly, as if he’s memorising every single curve beneath the soft sheets. When he reaches your waist, he pauses, and you can almost hear the grin spread across his face. He hadn’t been expecting you- you weren’t supposed to arrive until the following morning, and, just for a second, you begin to worry, doubt mingling with the excitement of being so close to him after a full week apart.

Then, you’re tasting second hand vodka, and you think it might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever known in this world. It combines with the very essence of him, consuming your senses, and stoking a slow burning fire, deep within the pit of your stomach. You hadn’t realised just how you’d missed him until this moment.

“Al,” you whisper, your hand coming up to stroke the short, spiky tendrils at the base of his neck. 

“Mmm, yes love?” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to rub his nose all over your cheeks, nuzzling and inhaling the scent of your skin deeply.

You hum with pleasure, forgetting what you were going to say for a moment. His lips return to your mouth, and he kisses you deeply before propping himself up on his elbows and gazing down at you with a sweet, drunken smile.

“Best birthday present ever.”

You reach up to stroke his cheek, giggling as he leans into it, his stubble tickling your delicate skin. “Wait till you see what I have in my bag,” you say, laughing as his eyes light up. He scrambles backwards in excitement, eyes darting around the pitch black room for your suitcase.

You sit up and flick on the bedside lamp, and he grins triumphantly as he spots his prize, sitting innocently on the chair in the corner. He carries it over to you and crawls back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged and almost bouncing with excitement. “Hurry!”

“Calm down,” you giggle, his enthusiasm infectious, and you’re hit with a sudden wonderous appreciation that you’re the only one he’s ever like this with. Nobody else gets to see him with his guard so far down, and you’re filled with such a wave of love for him that you drop the box you’d been lifting out of your bag onto the mattress. You cradle his face in your hands, staring into his eyes, and he gazes intently back at you, as if knows exactly what you’re thinking. 

You lean your forehead against his and close your eyes for a second, revelling in his closeness, his scent, his warmth. He’s only been on tour for a week, but between rehearsals, and your own job, it feels like so much longer. His hands come up to rest on your shoulders, holding you tenderly, and you stay like that until the vibrations of his body remind you of the task in hand.

You pull away, picking up the carefully packaged box again, and move to sit facing him, cross-legged, mirroring his own position. He smiles widely, looking so like a little boy that you’re struck with a sudden, intense longing. You brush the thought aside happily, and open the lid. 

Inside are two cupcakes; one with pale blue icing and a delicate purple, edible flower; the other white with a fine, spun sugar net encasing it. They look delicious, and almost too pretty to eat.

You watch as his face lights up, his eyes darting from the confectionery to your face and back again. “Are these from..?”

“Of course. You didn’t think I’d made them myself did you?” You laugh. Your culinary skills- or the lack thereof, have become something of a running joke between you. 

He laughs with you. “But how did you get them here all the way from London?”

“I have my ways,” you say coyly, flashing a cheeky grin at him. In truth, it was nothing special -You’d ordered them from his favourite bakery, asking them to make sure they’d survive the flight across the Atlantic, and here they were. 

You pluck the pastel blue one from its case and hold it up to his lips expectantly. He licks his lips, fixing his eyes on yours as his tongue darts out to swipe at the icing. He moans quietly in delight, his eyes fluttering shut involuntarily. You’d expected him to try and scoff the lot, so when he gently takes the cupcake from your hand and presses it to your lips, you’re filled with an overwhelming urge to kiss him senseless.

So, you do.

Knocking the cupcake from his hand, you crawl onto his lap, smothering his face with desperate little kisses, and wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. He groans, his hands immediately circling your waist and tugging you even closer, the force of his movement toppling you both down flat onto the mattress. He’s over you in a matter of seconds, fingers framing your face and tangling in your hair, as he matches your desperation with his own.

“I missed you,” he whispers in your ear, “I missed you.”

You tug his mouth back to yours and you kiss for another few minutes; soft, tender kisses, all lips and no tongues, just the barest pressure being exerted as all of your energy goes into the feelings behind them, rather than the act itself.

After a while you break apart, drifting back to lean against the headboard. He retrieves the forgotten treats, and you finish your little picnic, feeding each other tiny morsels, your actions teasing and playful.

When your eyes start to droop, he brushes the crumbs off the covers and pulls them up to rest under your chin. He hurriedly peels off his shirt and jeans, and slips under the duvet beside you, naked, his body warm and comforting as he reaches over you to switch off the lamp.

You snuggle into his arms, a true smile on your face for the first time since you parted. You hear his breathing start to even out –he’s tired from the gig, and the heavy night of drinking with the lads.

"I missed you too,” you murmur quietly into his chest, the soft downy hairs tickling against your skin. You breathe in his scent, greedily.

“Sleep,” he mumbles, “I’ve got plans for you tomorrow. You’ll need your rest.” You can hear the smirk in his voice, and roll your eyes, shifting closer to him.

“I look forward to it.” 

You’re soon being lulled to sleep by the steady beating of his heart beneath your cheek, glad you made the right decision after all. You yawn tiredly, kissing his chest, hearing his pleased murmur as he wraps his strong arms around your shoulders.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”


	3. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving home from a work trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timestamp to Stjarna (At time of writing a future fic)
> 
> Written April 2011.

West Sussex. September, 2011.

Pulling into the driveway, you smile, the familiar crunch of the gravel under your tyres telling you you’re finally home. It’s been a tough week and a half; the first time you’d ever spent so long away from Rose, and several times you’d found yourself on the verge of tears, wanting desperately to book the next flight home to be with your baby.

You’d known without any trace of doubt that Alan would take good care of her, his precious little girl, your daughter, and his world. He adores her, would moves oceans for her if he thought it would make her happy. You smile as you remember how he’d spend hours watching her sleep, reverently cradling her in his arms and crooning softly when she cried. Peek-a-boo from the end of the bed is a particular favourite; you love her delighted giggles when he pops back into view, and the way her tiny hands reach for him, clutching at him when he lifts her up and gently spins her round.

No, you weren’t worried at all.

A surge of relief pours over you as you park the car, step out, and make your way to the front door without even bothering to lock it. Your suitcase can wait till later, briefcase too –there’s nothing important in either of them anyway, just papers upon papers, forms and spreadsheets from the numerous companies involved in the conferences you’d been attending.

Opening the door you call out, “Hello! Anybody home?”

“In here, love.”

You drop your keys on the hall table, tugging off your jacket to throw it haphazardly over the banisters, and follow the sound of his voice to the kitchen. You can hear the faint strains of Peppa Pig coming from the television as you enter the room, the volume barely audible, and you realise Rose must be asleep. Glancing around, you notice she’s not there, but the quiet snuffles coming from the baby monitor on the table instantly reassure you.

Alan is at the sink washing out some bottles, readying them to go into the steriliser, facing away from you. He doesn’t immediately turn to greet you, and you frown slightly. It’s unusual- he’s never done that in all your time together that you can remember. Normally, he’d have swept you into his arms by now, planting a firm, welcoming kiss on your lips. 

Shaking your head slightly to clear your thoughts, you sidle up behind him, slipping your arms around his chest and pressing your cheek against his strong back. “Mmm,” you sigh happily, “Missed you. It’s so good to be home.”  
“I missed you too, sweetheart,” he replies, reaching up to squeeze your hands tightly against his chest. 

He still doesn’t turn around, and suddenly you’re worried. Something’s obviously wrong. What is it? Is it Rose? No, he’s too calm for that. The house is still standing, so he hasn’t burnt it down. What then? 

“Alan?” you ask, taking a step back from him, “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, love.”

“Alan, turn around. Look at me.”

You hold your breath as he pauses, but finally he turns to face you. You gasp in shock, eyes fixed firmly on his mouth. Or rather, above his mouth. On the fully-fledged moustache that’s now gracing the space between his nose and lips.

You stare open-mouthed at him for a while, until he starts to squirm uncomfortably under your gaze. He looks away, raising a hand to run it over the neat patch of hair. “I knew you’d hate it,” he says miserably.

His words half jolt you out of your shock. “No, no I...”

“I only did it because I was so busy with Rose that I didn’t have time to shave,” he interrupts, trying to explain. “By the time I’d got her off to sleep, I was exhausted and I just fell into bed, and it just grew. And then when I had a chance to do it yesterday, I’d... I guess I’d got used to it, and I kind of liked it, so I left it.”

He looks up into your still shocked face, and sighs. “I’ll get rid of it tonight, I promise.”

You step closer, biting your lower lip as you reach out a hesitant hand to cup his chin. He blinks in surprise, watching as you study it closely. At first, you’d been horrified, thinking it was some kind of bad joke on his part, but now... Now you just thought it was sexy. It made him look more mature, distinguished, but not in an ‘older gentlemen going down the Member’s Club to smoke pipes and talk business’ kind of way. 

You find yourself suddenly, desperately needing to feel it against your skin.

You’re breathing heavily as you take hold of the ends of the moustache, using the leverage to tug his face closer to yours. You reach up, standing on your toes as you meet his lips halfway in a feverish kiss. It’s ticklish, the bristly hairs scratching at your soft skin, and you feel your whole body shiver at the sensation. It feels incredible!

Your breath comes quicker as you dive in for another kiss, slipping your tongue between his pliant lips. He’s frozen, hands lightly gripping your hips in reflex, his mouth lax and almost completely unresponsive. Your thumbs are still caressing his moustache when you eventually pull away, panting, your eyes hooded as you meet his stunned gaze.

“No,” you say quietly, huskily. 

“No?” He’s looking at you with sheer bewilderment.

“No.” Your hand creeps down to play with his lapels, “You get rid of it, and you’ll be sleeping on the couch till it grows back again.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and a devious grin curls at his lips. He tugs you closer to him, hands tightening around your waist before dropping them to give your bum a firm squeeze. “Mmm,” he chuckles, “You like it then.”

You’re not smiling, and his face starts to fall- until he sees the barely restrained lust in your eyes. You want him, so so badly, and you know he can sense it.

He starts to laugh, amused and flattered by just how obvious it is that you still find him sinfully attractive, even after all these years. You growl at him, fingers digging into his chest, and you start desperately, fiercely clawing at his clothes. Pushing his jacket off his shoulders, you ignore his hiss of protest as it lands in the sink, tearing his t-shirt over his head, needing to feel him bare under your hands.

He groans as you reveal his chest, and leans back on his hands, gripping the edge of the counter roughly between his fingertips as you proceed to ravage his skin. It’s only a matter of moments before his chest is a patchwork of red and purple blotches, his flesh sucked raw between your lips. His nipples are wet and hard, standing to attention between the extreme heat of your mouth and the cool September air.

He can do nothing but watch, powerless as you work open his belt, flinging it to the floor behind you, and sinking to your knees. You whimper under your breath, unable to undo the buttons on his damn jeans quickly enough, desperately needing to feel him, taste him, take him fully into your mouth. 

Finally, mercifully, they come apart. His thick, long member springs out, bobbing in front of your face, and you groan at the sight, your need for him now unbearable. You lick your lips, eyes dark, as you shuffle forwards, dragging your tongue lightly along his length, tracing the pulsing vein on the underside.

You glance up at him as a low groan bubbles up from his chest, his hand groping blindly for your head as you slowly take the tip of his pulsing cock between your lips. His head is thrown back, mouth open and gasping, his eyes closed as he tangles his fingers in your hair. He needs more- and you oblige him, finally sinking his thick cock deep into your mouth. His hips thrust towards you involuntarily, and you move your hands to hold him firmly against the cupboards. This isn’t his game right now.

You work him hard; alternating between taking him deep and fast, stroking him firmly with your free hand, and licking gently at him, running your tongue over his most sensitive areas. You take his balls into your mouth one by one, thoroughly wetting him, and run your finger rhythmically over the skin just behind them as you shudder with lust. He’s keening low in his throat, struggling to keep his hips still, but inevitably, finally, his dominant side wins out. His hands suddenly tighten their grip in your hair, pulling you gently but firmly over his throbbing length until it slides out of your mouth with a sticky pop.

Sitting back on your haunches, you look up at him. You’re both panting heavily, his eyes reflecting your own dark lust right back at you, and his cock flexes in front of your eyes, a single drop of clear fluid pooling at the tip before dripping onto the kitchen floor. 

You watch it fall, wanting nothing more than to pounce on it and lick it right off the tiles, but he’s tugging lightly at your hair. You turn glazed eyes on him, and allow him to pull you to your feet, straight into a possessive, wet kiss. Your teeth clash as he forces his tongue into your mouth, examining every inch of it, and sucking at your lips roughly. His wonderful moustache is burning your skin, scratching the base of your nose, drying your lips as he kisses you ferociously.

Your blouse disappears and you find yourself being shoved face-first onto the countertop, your bra doing nothing to protect you from the shock of the cold marble against your heated flesh. You press your cheek even more firmly to it, needing to keep what’s left of your senses intact. 

“Alan,” you gasp, “Please! Please!’’

You feel him smirk against your back, as he presses his face to your skin, rubbing his moustache all over you. You wriggle and writhe at the sensation, feeling the trickle of moisture between your legs increase. Pushing back, you feel the heat of his hard, hard length through your pencil skirt, the wet tip leaving a dark patch on the thin material that soaks straight through to your arse.

“Al-an!” You half beg, half moan, desperation on the verge of overwhelming you.

His fingers scrabble at your zip, tugging it down with such force that it breaks. He pulls your hips out just enough to let the skirt slip to the floor, your damp knickers quickly following suit. You step out of them, kicking them to the side, feeling a huge thrill at the knowledge that you’re about to be fucked hard in your own kitchen, in the middle of the afternoon- wearing nothing but a lacy bra and a pair of high heels.

Before you can even finish the thought, he’s leaning over you, cock in hand, aimed exactly where you want him to be. He presses his lips to your ear, his hot breath and the short bristles driving you mad. “Can you take it, sweetheart?” He murmurs, taking the shell of your ear lightly between his teeth.

“Uh-huh!” You nod, all language failing you at this critical point. Luckily, he knows you well enough to understand your unintelligible groans, and he moans quietly into your ear. He rubs his tip over your soaking folds and pushes inside, only stopping when his hips are pressed flush to the curve of your arse. He holds himself there, using his abdominal muscles to make his cock twitch inside you, knowing how wild it makes you.

You cry out loudly, fingers reaching behind you to grab his arse, trying to force him to move. He swats your hand away and pins it to the counter, quickly following suit with the other. You’re trapped, well and truly at his mercy, and you catch his eye, letting him know just how much you love it.

He crushes your lips together, ravishing your mouth as he starts to pound into you in earnest. It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for him to make you come, and he has to plant a hand over your mouth to quieten your screams lest you wake the baby. You shudder and buck in his arms, frantically rubbing your aching clit against the cupboard doors and simultaneously meeting his thrusts. 

It doesn’t take much longer for him to reach his climax either –it has been a long ten days after all, and you peak for the second time as he fills your body with his hot semen, his cock pulsing and throbbing deep inside you. His groan is surprisingly quiet, and you twist around to look at him. His eyes are glazed as he meets your stare, a dopey, satiated smile on his face.

He slowly pulls out and you turn around fully, his come trickling down your leg. He takes a step towards you, running one of his long fingers up your thigh, collecting the sticky fluid. He raises an eyebrow as you open your mouth without him even having to ask, chuckling quietly as you eagerly suck his finger clean. 

“God, I love you,” he says, leaning his forehead against yours and looking down into your eyes. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too.” You smile, settling your arms in a loose hold around his waist even as he wraps his around your shoulders.

You stay like that, safe in his embrace, until he eventually breaks the silence, his voice rich with amusement. “So- you really like it, then?”

“I do,” you agree, leaning up to kiss him and nuzzling into the moustache. “I do very much. You’re a very sexy man Mr. Wilder.”

“Good,” he kisses you again, laughing softly, before the sudden crackling of the baby monitor draws your attention. You look at him and he nods, his smile widening. “You go, I’ll clean up here.”

You beam at him, gathering up your clothes and pressing a kiss to his cheek as you hurry upstairs to see your daughter.

It’s definitely good to be home.


	4. Tea Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a little break in the summer sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future timestamp to Stjarna
> 
> Written May 2011.

West Sussex. June, 2015.

Gravel crunches underfoot as footsteps approach from the direction of the studio. You don’t turn, already knowing there’s only two people it could possibly be –and PK is never that quiet. A shadow falls across your chequered blanket.

“What on Earth are you two doing?”

You smile as Rose looks up, looking over your shoulder and waving wildly. You turn and glance too, raising a hand above your eyes to block out the strong sunlight.

“What does it look like we’re doing, sweetheart? We’re having a tea party. Won’t you join us?”

He glances back at the studio, hidden from view by the trees that surround it. “I should really get back, the samples...”

“Oh please, Daddy! Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a second, and you smile. It’s a source of endless amusement for you, your daughter’s hold over your husband. He’s never once been able to deny her anything.

Groaning quietly he sinks down onto the picnic blanket, rubbing his knees as he sits cross-legged beside you. He picks up your hand from where it rests in your lap, bringing it to his lips and dropping a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Would you care for some tea, Daddy?”

You share a smile at your little girl’s manners. She’s playing the perfect hostess.

“I’d love some,” he nods, not batting an eyelid as he accepts the proffered drink, served in Her Highness’ best –a pink plastic cup adorned with stickers of ponies. He takes a sip, doing well to hide his wince of distaste, his face freezing as he swallows with some difficulty. “Mmm, that was... That was lovely.”

“Thank you, I made it myself,” Rose beams up at him.

“What kind of tea is it?” He asks, calmly accepting a snack from the dish she offers to him. He bites into the dandelion leaf without breaking stride, brushing the stray blade of grass from his lips as if it were a regular occurrence. You spot a hint of white between his teeth as he washes down the daisies with another swig of tea.

“Dandelion,” she says proudly, shuffling over to him on her knees and refilling his cup from her little teapot. “I made the sandwiches myself too!”

“And they’re the best sandwiches I’ve ever tasted,” he assures her, scooping her up and placing her in his lap. She snuggles into his arms, tilting her head back to look up at him.

“I’ll make Mummy share her special grown up tea with you, if you want?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, and you shift slightly to the side, your face a mask of perfect innocence as you try to hide your own pot behind you. He moves suddenly, snatching the cup out of your hand and bringing it to his lips. He takes a sip, and slowly lowers it from his mouth.

“You made me drink ‘dandelion tea’ when you’ve got a pot of coffee hidden under your skirts?!” He exclaims in disbelief.

Rose bounces excitedly in his lap. “And biscuits!”

“And biscuits?” He repeats. His face changes and you know you’re in trouble.

You try to leap to your feet but he’s too quick –and he’s got help. Grabbing you by the waist he tugs you back down, pinning you to the blanket with one hand. “Come on, Rose,” he says breathlessly. “Time to tickle Mummy till she screams!”

She launches herself at you, little fingers scrabbling under your arms and over your stomach as you writhe under his hold. Within seconds you have tears streaming down your face, unable to speak through the peals of laughter.

“P-please! S-stop!” You beg.

Suddenly they do; Rose sitting comfortably on your stomach, and Alan looming over you, his face mere inches from your own. “Do you surrender?” He asks, throwing a conspiratorial wink to his daughter.

You nod, too caught up in the brightness of his blue eyes, glittering with laughter, to say anything. He closes the gap, taking your mouth in a chaste, but passionate kiss. Enough to make your toes curl, but also enough to not disgust your baby girl.

“Ewwww!”

Or maybe not.

Alan pulls away with a chuckle, taking a second to look deep into your eyes. You shiver at the unspoken promise and lick your lips. By the time you’ve sat up and smoothed your skirt to settle around you in a more modest fashion his attention is once again focussed on Rose. You smile softly to yourself, plucking a stray blade of grass from your plate of biscuits and offer them to him.

He grins at you as he takes one and bites into it, licking away the crumbs from his lips. You pour him a fresh cup of coffee and lie back to bask in the sunshine.

After a while Rose wanders off to play, twirling and dancing with the shadows and other wonderful things you can’t see. You wish you still had her imagination. You smile as you watch her, your heart swelling with love for the two most important people in the world to you.

Alan tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, cupping your palm and drawing you into a sweet kiss. You close your eyes in pleasure, your hand coming up to rest on his cheek in a mirror image of your own. You stroke your thumb over his cheekbone as he pulls away, smiling down at you. You shuffle closer and lie down on the blanket, your head cushioned in his lap, and you drift off into a light doze with his fingers threading buttercups into your hair.


	5. Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan's birthday takes an unexpected, and unpleasant, twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timestamp to Stjarna
> 
> Written May 2011.

Rotterdam. June, 1993.

You take a deep breath as you approach the door, your hand trembling ever so slightly. You feel Alan squeeze your fingers and look up into his eyes, catching his reassuring smile. He pulls you to a stop before he opens the door, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

“You ok, love?” He asks.

You hesitate, and he gently cups your chin in his palm, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle quietly. He pulls away and smiles at you. “We don’t have to go in if you don’t feel up to it.”

“No,” you shake your head, forcing down your nerves and plastering a wide smile on your face. “I’ll be ok. Let’s go in.”

“You’re sure?” He raises an eyebrow and you know he’s caught on to your bravado.

You nod firmly and he turns to pull open the door. You hurry to grab his hand, the strength of his grip reassuring you, giving you the courage to step through the door and into the bar. Your hold on his hand tightens with every step you take across the crowded room, and he lifts your joined fist to his lips, dropping a tender kiss to each knuckle. You smile in embarrassment and loosen your grip.

“Here he is! Birthday boy himself!”

Martin’s loud voice makes you jump and you both turn to see his wide grin. He gestures for you to join them at the end of the bar -Fletch and Kessler engaged in a heavy discussion about the merits of football over its American counterpart. They wave and smile in greeting, wishing Alan a happy birthday. Martin slides a drink along the bar to you and you nod in thanks, relaxing slightly in the company of these people you know well. 

Your anxiety melts away as the drinks continue to flow, Alan’s arm secure around your waist as you poke fun at Martin’s choice of clothing for the evening. He’s silently fuming, but you catch his wink, knowing he’s just trying to wind Alan and Fletch up with his threats of digging out his old PVC shorts for the tour. 

“You try it and I’ll push you off the top of the stage, Mart.” Andy threatens, shaking a finger at his friend. “And you needn’t start thinking about reviving your stripper tendencies either!”

Alan chuckles softly beside you, masking the sound by pressing a kiss to your temple, resting his cheek on the top of your head. You lean into him, suddenly wondering why you’d been so nervous about coming out tonight. It’s your first time out in almost a year –a horrible, horrible year filled with anguish and pain, the devastation of losing your baby taking over your whole life. You’d only agreed to come because it’s his birthday, and Alan had promised to stay by your side all night, and while Martin dissolves into a fit of giggles, you move closer to Alan, your lips brushing against his earlobe as you whisper ‘thank you’.

He looks down at you in surprise, eyes softening as he sees the look on your face. He knows, understanding you completely without the slightest need for words. His arm tightens its grip around your shoulders and you cuddle into him, glad you’d come after all. You finish your drink, and another materialises in front of you. You meet Martin’s gaze and laugh, accepting the drink and falling into a sweet conversation with him about his little girl. It sends a stab of pain through you, but you force it down, his drunken enthusiasm infecting even you.

“You alright, love?” Alan’s voice sounds suddenly in your ear and you turn your head to meet his smiling face. His cheeks are flushed, with alcohol and something else, and you grin back at him.

“Perfect,” you reply. “I’m glad you talked me into coming.” You twist around and lean up on your tiptoes to reach his lips, taking the plump bottom one gently between your teeth. “Remind me to thank you properly later.”

He raises an eyebrow and licks his lips, eyes darkening as he fixes you with a predatory stare. “I’ll be sure to do that,” he murmurs quietly. “Does the birthday boy get to make a request?”

You meet his stare with a saucy grin. “Anything you want.”

He chuckles quietly, dangerously, and sweeps you into his arms, kissing you deeply. You’re breathless by the time he releases you and you stumble backwards, only his quick hands saving you from ending up on the floor, and the force of his movement sends you tumbling into his chest. Yes, you’re definitely glad you came.

As you pull away you spy Kessler making his way back over to your group and your heart drops. You know that look he has on his face, and as he reaches you the only thing running through your mind is ‘I knew it was too good to be true.’

“Alan,” he says with a wide grin. “There are some lovely gentlemen from the label here, and they’ve been asking to talk to you. I told them I’d bring you right over.”

Alan frowns, his arm tightening around your shoulder. “Not tonight, eh Kess? It’s my birthday and the missus is here.”

“They’re insisting Alan. Come on, it’ll only take five minutes, ten tops.”

“Kess...”

Kessler grabs hold of Alan’s arm and tugs him towards him, leaning in to speak into his ear. Alan’s arm slips from your shoulder, falling heavily to his side as Kessler continues to talk in low tones. Alan glances back at you, shaking his head as he hisses back at Kessler, clearly unhappy, but resigned, and you look away, your face falling as Kess convinces him to do as he asks. 

He walks back over to you, face apologetic. “Love? Kess needs me to do something; will you be ok for five minutes?”

You look up at him pleadingly and he sighs, running his hand through his hair. You swallow past the lump in your throat, feeling horribly guilty for putting him in this situation, and reluctantly nod. “I’ll be fine,” you manage to say without your voice trembling. “Mart’ll be here to keep me company.”

The tension leaves his shoulders and he smiles down at you, cupping your cheek in his hand and tilting your head to give you a sweet kiss. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Ok, I’ll be back soon.” He kisses you again and turns to follow Kessler. You watch him walk away, clearly glaring at Kess, and otherwise making his displeasure well known, until he disappears into the mass of people, and when you lose sight of him, you shrink, your anxiety returning full force. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure, and when you open them again, you find yourself alone. You look around frantically, just spotting Martin’s blonde curls as he’s led away into the crowd by a buxom brunette.

An hour later you’re no longer alone. You sigh and force the smile back on to your face. This guy really can’t take a hint, and his presence is starting to wear on your already frayed nerves. You glance around the room, hiding your agitation by taking a long sip of your drink, eyes desperately trying to locate Alan in the large crowd of people. ‘Where are you?’ 

The guy sidles closer, now leaning on the bar with one elbow, hovering over you. You smile uncomfortably and try to inch away again, not liking how he’s managed to back you into the corner. You’ve spent most of the last hour trying to get it through this guy’s thick skull that you aren’t interested. You’ve told him countless times that you have a boyfriend, even flashed your ring under his nose -pretending it’s an engagement ring -but still he won’t leave you alone, looming over you, and you’ve never felt so small.

“Look, just please go away,” you say tiredly, taking a deep breath in an attempt to force down your anxiety as he shifts his arm on the bar, moving even further into your space. “I’ve told you, I have a boyfriend.”

“Sure you do, sweetheart,” he laughs, and you stiffen at the term of endearment. Only Alan gets to call you that.

“Please leave me alone,” you ask again, and suddenly his hand is on your face, thick, meaty fingers gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him. Your eyes widen in panic and you try to pull away. “Let go of me!”

You push at his chest, but your fear has left you weak and he just chuckles, his very ordinary face twisting into a leering grin. You can feel tears starting to prick the back of your eyelids and you push him again, to no avail. He leans down, licking his lips as his gaze zeroes in on your mouth. You squeeze your eyes shut, pushing yourself backwards with all your strength, but he has you pinned against the bar and there’s nowhere for you to go. A thought flashes through your mind as the stench of his breath reaches your nostrils, and you start to raise your knee just as you hear a furious roar coming from behind him.

“OI!”

He’s roughly pulled away from you, long, thin fingers clawing at the collar of his leather jacket, and he stumbles as he turns around to confront your rescuer. “What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at mate? I was in there!” He exclaims angrily as he comes face to face with cold blue eyes.

“Like fuck you were, mate,” Alan bites out, shoving him hard in the chest. “That’s my girlfriend you’re trying to force yourself on.”

“Please,” the guy snorts, “She needs a real man, not a pretty boy like you. Bet she doesn’t even know what it’s like to be properly satisfied.” He sneers at him and turns back to face you. “Now then sweetheart, where were we?”

Your eyes widen at his sheer stupidity, and you barely have time to gasp before his mouth is pressed against yours. You turn your head away from him, panic racing through your veins, and suddenly he’s gone. You open your eyes to see Alan dragging him back again, and this time he doesn’t hesitate. 

You yelp in surprise as blood spurts from between Alan’s fingers, his fist striking the guy’s nose hard, and you can hear the crack of cartilage crumbling under the strength of the blow. He groans in pain, stumbling backwards and tripping over a well-placed ankle belonging to Martin, who’s suddenly appeared from the midst of the crowd and is glaring down at him.

A surge of affection rushes through you and you smile, waiting for Alan to turn and see you, wanting him to wrap you up in his arms and spirit you away to safety like a knight in a fairy tale. But he doesn’t. Instead he crouches over the man laid out on the floor and tugs him upright into a sitting position. His head lolls back and he blinks, trying to focus as Alan’s face is suddenly right in front him, eyes dark and threatening.

“Not such a big man now, are you?” Alan spits, lips curled up in anger. “Are you?!”

He shakes him roughly, the guys head whipping from side to side with the force of the movement. He moans, his eyes closing as the room starts to spin dangerously, and you watch in shock as Alan lifts his fist to hit him again.

You step forward and lightly place your hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention away from his victim. “That’s enough, Al. He’s learned his lesson, now please, just leave it.” 

You’re expecting him to do as you ask -usually he can’t say no when you flash him the big, sad eyes -but he doesn’t. He shakes your hand off of him roughly and you take a step back. The look in his eyes almost frightens you with their intensity, he looks so angry. With you. 

You take another step backwards, bumping into the bar. A wave of guilt rushes over you. This is all your fault. You led him on and now Alan’s had to come clean up your mess again. You’ve caused all this trouble, you’re the reason the room has gone silent, all eyes fixed on the scene in front of you. You’re the reason Alan is angry; he left you alone for five minutes and already you had some guy crawling all over you, and you’d just stood there and done nothing to dissuade him. No wonder he doesn’t trust you.

“Alan...” you whisper weakly, your face crumbling under the weight of the guilt that now feels like it’s crushing you.

You can feel all the hundreds of eyes on you, every single one of them judging you, recognising you for what you are. You’re not worthy of him, he deserves someone so much stronger than you. It’s taken you a year to get this far, a year to be able to be in a room filled with people you mostly know, nearly all of them friends or colleagues. Alan didn’t need a year –he’d been back at work in the studio in a matter of weeks. At the time, you’d thought you were doing ok, but now... Now you know better. It’s all been him. He’s been your crutch, you’ve leant on him too long and too much, and he’s finally snapped. Tonight had been the last straw –you’d let him down one too many times and now you’d have to pay the price. You might lose him.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you try to pull yourself together. From now on, you have to be strong, you have to be the one to stand up for yourself and not rely on him to be your knight in shining armour. His voice drags you back to the present moment.

“I’m not fucking done with him yet,” he growls, throwing you a half-glance. He shakes the other man again, and he groans weakly. “She’s mine, you fucking hear me?!”

‘Yours?’ You blink, trying to comprehend his words. ‘Yours?!’

Suddenly you’re inexplicably, overwhelmingly furious with him –it’s like he’s seen exactly what was going on inside your head and purposely trod all over it, smashing your newly-formed determination to pieces. Your nostrils flare, eyes blazing with hurt as you grab his shoulder and forcefully turn him to face you. “How dare you?! How dare you treat me like some... some possession. I am not your fucking pet, Alan Wilder, and you’d best start bloody realising that!”

He gapes at you, mouth hanging open in shock as you rail at him, choking through your unshed tears. You’re dimly aware of him reaching out to you, and you lash out, slapping his hand away and making him recoil in surprise. “Don’t touch me!” You shout, voice cracking and you fall silent, shoulders heaving with the effort of trying to calm your unsteady breaths. 

He gets to his feet and takes a step towards you, moving slowly in case you spook. An unexpected chuckle from the man lying prone on the floor attracts both of your attention. He’s managed to push himself into a sitting position, and he sneers at Alan through the blood and shattered remains of his nose. “Yeah, you heard the lady, pretty boy. She don’t want you.”

Alan clenches his fist again, breath whistling through his teeth. His eyes meet yours and for a split second you truly believe you’re the one he’s going to hit. You flinch when he turns with a loud growl, arm already out, and punches the guy right on the chin, knocking him flat. His eyes are wild and bright, the light of madness clear in them, and you gasp as they catch you in their snare. Not waiting for the inevitable blow, you push past him, rushing out of the room and out into the street, tears streaming down your face.

You hear him call your name, his shock at your behaviour clearly evident, but you don’t stop, pushing through the crowd of people to get to the fire exit. You can hear sounds of a struggle behind you; Martin’s voice as he tries to calm Alan down, offering to go after you himself. You’re dimly aware of Alan’s snarled ‘Fuck off!’ in response, and then you push down on the bar of the door, gasping as you finally make it outside, gulping down huge lungfuls of the cool, night air.

Your breath hitches as you lean heavily against the brick wall, tearing flowing uncontrollably down your cheeks. You can’t stop sobbing -the anger and misery inside you mixing together to form this overwhelming ball of emotion that sticks in your throat. You feel like you can’t breathe. You feel like there’s hundreds of eyes on you still, judging you, finding you wanting, and you panic, filled with a desperate, sudden urge to get away from all of them.

Pushing yourself away from the wall you start to run. The tears are blinding you and you can’t catch your breath at all through your sobs, your chest burning at the strain it’s under. A person suddenly appears in front of you and you veer away from them, almost falling over a bin. They ask if you’re alright, hand reaching out to help you, but you flinch violently and start to run again. You need to get away –look at them all, all of them knowing you need help, knowing you can’t do anything for yourself. You hate it, you hate not being capable, hate the feeling of reliance. Hate knowing just how much Alan must resent you for it.

Another person reaches out to you as you stumble past, and you turn and scream at them, “Leave me alone! I don’t need your help!” Your voice cracks and your last syllable is barely more than a whisper, but they seem to get the message, withdrawing their hand and taking a step back. You run your hands through your hair as you look around wildly, eyes not really seeing anything through the wet sheen of tears, but your mind provides you with images of what must be there; the sympathetic glances of strangers, mocking, gloating women capable of giving their men what they want, and worst of all, you can see your friends, with their empty words of condolence and support. They have no idea what you’ve been through.

Suddenly there’s a strong hand firmly gripping your arm, tugging you around to face the person it belongs to, and now you truly panic. You scream at the top of your lungs, trying desperately to wrench your wrist from the iron grasp and, failing that, hammering at the broad chest you’ve been presented with. The grip tightens and then there’s another hand holding your other wrist in a mirror image hold. You struggle more, throwing yourself backwards and kicking out with your feet, crying harder as your toes connect with solid flesh, your attack doing nothing to phase your captor.

The grip on your wrists increases infinitesimally and suddenly you’re being pulled forwards, crushed against that strong chest. For a second you freeze, the familiar scent filling your nostrils and flooding your senses with feelings of safety, and warmth, and happiness. You close your eyes, breathing heavily through your mouth as you fight to regain control of your senses. 

With a muted cry you try to pull away, only succeeding in having him release your wrists to wrap his arms tightly around you. He holds you close, his chin resting just millimetres above your head, safe from its whipping motions as you wriggle in his embrace, desperately seeking freedom. You shout at him, loud, angry, nasty words as, for the first time in your life, you want to hurt him. You want him to feel just as bad as you do. It’s not fair that he hasn’t suffered as you have, that he was able to get his life back when you couldn’t. 

“You bastard!” You scream at him, voice hoarse before you even start. “You utter, utter bastard! How dare you... How fucking dare you?! I... I ha-” You swallow the word -even now you couldn’t lie to him like that. “Why do I love you?! Why?!”

You pull back from his chest enough to raise your fists, hammering at his chest, fingers scraping and catching in his shirt. You fight him with enough effort to rip a button from its place, your nails instantly finding the gap and moving to scratch his bare skin.

“Why?!” You screech again, clawing at him, still struggling to free yourself from the hold he has on you. “You don’t feel anything, you don’t even care! You don’t give a damn about anything, about me, about him...”

Still he holds you, staying silent, allowing you to waste your energy with your futile attacks. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, not to agree with or deny anything you say. He just holds you like he’ll never let you go, and somehow it’s that, that realisation of his determination, that makes all the fight simply flee from your body.

You slump against him, head resting against his chest between your fists, now weakly clutching at his ruined shirt, as you continue to swear at him in between taking huge shuddering gulps of air. Your tears still flow steadily, the one constant in the last however long it’s been since you ran out of the bar. He shifts slightly, just to tighten his arm around your waist, moving the other to rest on the back of your neck, holding you close, and his cheek comes down to press against the top of your head, his breaths warm and steady on your scalp.

Your knees fold beneath you, all the anger-fuelled strength evaporating, leaving your body trembling and faint. You cling weakly to his shirt as your head spins and you feel him lowering you gently to the ground, your legs folding gracefully beneath you as he follows you down, still holding you close. 

You feel so bad. All the things you’ve said to him, how you’ve acted, come flooding back into your mind and you feel sick to the pit of your stomach, the bile rising in your throat as you realise how much of it you actually meant.

“Alan,” you whisper, your voice hitching as the sobs threaten to overwhelm you again, a wave of shame and disgust crashing over you as you squeeze your eyes closed in a vain attempt to stem the flow of tears. “Oh god, Alan, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You feel his lips against your hair, your temple, his hands tracing gentle circles on your back. He doesn’t say a word, just allowing your grief to run its course. “It’s all my fault,” you cry in quiet misery, “It’s my fault, I killed him, I ruined everything. I’m so, so sorry, Alan.”

He buries his nose in your hair, his breathing heavy. You relax into his arms, crying openly now, too tired and numb to try hide it anymore. Your head falls back into the crook of his arm and then his lips are on you, pressing warm, quick kisses all over your face. You barely feel them, trailing over your skin from your temples to your cheeks, the most delicate fluttering of his lips tracing over your eyelids, tasting the salty tracks.

His breathing is erratic, and you detect the slightest tremor in his lips as he continues to shower you with gentle kisses. You open your eyes, gazing up at him to see his eyes are clenched shut, his cheeks damp. You gasp in shock, and his eyes open, meeting your stare with watery blue irises. As you watch, a single perfect tear escapes his lashes and slips down his cheek. You catch it with your fingertip just as it reaches his chin, holding it there as you hold your breath, eyes wide, watching as he opens his mouth to draw in a shaky breath. He bites his lip. 

You can’t look away, your eyes fixed on his, the importance of this moment not escaping you. He’s telling you everything you need to hear, and he hasn’t said a single word.

He really does love you.

And you whimper as you realise just how wrong you were. He hadn’t gotten over it at all; he’s been suffering just as much as you have –probably more, as he’d had to support you through your darkest moments, being strong for both of you without taking any time for himself. You hadn’t given him a chance.

Guilt smothers you, and you reach a trembling hand up to his face, your thumb smoothing his cheeks, and gently cup the back of his neck, drawing him down to you. You press your forehead against his and your eyes slip closed, your sobs slowly quieting to tiny little hitches of your breath.

You stay like that for ages, the quiet reassurance flowing between you, until finally your skin starts to goosebump from the cold and you shiver. He slips his jacket from his shoulders, and wraps it around you, pulling it closed under your chin. You snuggle into it, its warmth, and his scent, surrounding you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, shooting him a weak smile. 

He returns it with a tiny quirk of his lips, before he stands, gently pulling you up with him. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his hand pausing to cup your cheek, stroking you with his thumb as he holds you close. You lean into his touch, rubbing against him as a fresh wave of tears gather in the corners of your eyes.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, and you allow him to lead you back to the hotel. 

As you walk you realise you have no idea where you are -you’d been running blind, too desperate and confused to have any idea what you were doing. You’re lucky he came after you. You’re lucky you have him at all.

To your surprise he leads you in the opposite direction to where the bar is, and the hotel. You raise your head to ask but he silences you with a small smile and a finger pressed lightly to your lips. You walk in silence then, his arm heavy and secure around your waist, tightening and loosening its grip on you in waves that match your erratic breathing, your breaths still coming in jerky gasps as you struggle to suppress your tears.

You keep your head pressed close to his chest, eyes on the ground, knowing you can’t handle the pitying stares of the few strangers that are still on the streets at this late hour. None of them stop to say anything, to ask if everything is ok, and when you risk a glance up at Alan’s face you can see why –that blank, wholly protective stare could scare off even the most concerned of Samaritans. You wriggle even closer to him, your hand creeping around his waist to clutch his hip. 

You turn a corner and start in surprise. The hotel is right in front of you, and from a little further down the street, the strains of music and laughter from the bar reach your ears. You know what he’s done –he’s brought you back by a different route so you wouldn’t have to walk past the scene of your little breakdown. Before you have any more time to dwell on it, he leads you into the hotel, smiling stiffly at the doorman who holds the door open for you with a ‘Good evening Sir, Madam.’

He whisks you through the foyer, your heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, and into the elevator. Once inside, you slump against the metal railing as he pushes the button for your floor, tapping his foot impatiently and throwing concerned glances in your direction as you rub at your eyes. 

You’re confused, wishing he’d say something, anything, but he doesn’t, instead just continuing to watch you carefully from the corner of his eye. You can’t meet his eyes, too ashamed of just how much you’d been taking him for granted. He’d been there silently supporting you through all these months, and what had you done for him? Nothing. You hadn’t even noticed he’d needed you too.

The lift chimes as it arrives, the doors sliding open to reveal an empty corridor. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief, you’d been afraid Martin or Andy, or even Dave, would be around, and you just can’t face them right now. 

Alan gently takes you by the elbow and leads you out of the lift to your room, swiftly unlocking the door and ushering you inside. You relax slightly as the door shuts firmly behind you, but when he reaches out to turn on the lights, you stop him, finding his hand inches from the light switch and threading your small fingers between his. He folds his hand around yours, watching you closely in the dim light that filters into the room through a gap in the curtains.

The moonlight makes the fresh teartracks on your cheeks glitter and he steps forward, tenderly brushing them away with the pads of his thumbs with a slight frown on his face.

“C’mon,” he says softly, tightening his grip on your joined hands and leading you into the bathroom. He flicks on the light above the mirror, and you wince at the brightness even though it’s only a fraction as bright as the main light would have been. 

Dropping your hand he turns to the bath and twists the tap, hot water rushing out to fill the large tub. He ignores the complimentary bubble bath, just swirling his fingers in the water to make sure the water is at the perfect temperature for you to lie back and relax in. 

You sit down on the closed toilet lid, watching him watch you out of the corner of his eye. You don’t think he’s looked away from you for a single second since he found you in the street, and you feel the love you have for him spreading through your body, warming you and chasing away the chill of despair that’s had you in its grip. 

He turns around when the bath is full, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. He unbuttons your blouse, every movement slow and deliberate, and he gently pushes it from your shoulders, catching it before it hits the floor and hanging it gently on the shower rail. You watch in silence as he kneels down, slipping your feet from your shoes and setting them aside, slowly unhooking and rolling your stockings down your legs. He shakes them out and lays them on the counter, careful not to snag them on his nails. You close your eyes briefly as his hands move to your waist, resting on your curves for the barest moment before they slip around your back, unbuttoning and unzipping your skirt. It falls to the floor, but this time he leaves it there. He’s felt your shiver at his touch, and his hand comes up to cup your chin. He leans in to press a light kiss to your lips.

His finger strokes your cheek as he pulls away, reaching around to unhook your bra. You reach up to slide the straps off your shoulders and he steps back, allowing you to slip your underwear off yourself. 

He steps back again and you climb into the tub, sinking back into the water with a quiet moan. You lay your head back against the rim and close your eyes, enjoying the feel of the water caressing your skin. You’ve never felt so exhausted and worn.

When you open your eyes again he’s at the door, your clothes carefully folded over his arm. Your heart clenches as you realise he’s leaving –only now noticing how having him near you has been the only thing keeping you together. You must make a sound because he suddenly turns to look at you once more, just as your face crumbles in disappointment, tears of despair slowly slipping down your cheeks to splash into the warm bathwater.

In an instant the door is closed and he walks straight back over to you. His face is set, but his eyes are wide open. He’s finally allowing you to see his every emotion laid bare in those beautiful ice-blue eyes of his. It leaves you breathless.

He stands in the centre of the room, mere feet from where you lie, and without breaking eye contact, he begins to strip. Each whisper of his clothing as it leaves his skin to fall on the cool tiles beneath his feet is like a revelation to you. He’s laying himself bare, tearing down every defence he has. For you.

When he’s done he stands there, waiting for you, and you see him swallow, his vulnerability obvious. You look up at him, a watery smile on your lips, and he moves closer, kneeling down on the tiles beside the bath. He leans towards you, resting his forehead against your own, and you close your eyes, your trembling hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck, holding him close to you as your tears mingle.

Eventually you pull back and gently kiss him on the mouth. “Will you stay?” You whisper.

He doesn’t answer, just kisses you back and stands, motioning for you to move forwards in the bath. He slips in behind you, his arms immediately coming up to pull you back against his chest. You can feel his lips against your hair, his warm breath stirring the strands, and he reaches up to pull out the pins, your hair tumbling down loose around your shoulders.

You turn in his embrace and lay your head right above his heart. The strong, regular beats are comforting, and you close your eyes with a deep sigh. He holds you in silence, and you know that everything will be ok.

Because he does understand, after all, and because he loves you.


	6. Tending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infamous kidney stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timestamp to Stjarna
> 
> Written May 2011.

Cape Town. February , 1994.

“Goodnight Daryl,” you wave as you shut the hotel room door behind you. 

Immediately you turn to look at Alan, slumped on the couch, tiny drops of sweat beading on his forehead. You cross the room in three strides, kneeling in front of him with an expression of concern, and gently lay your hand on his overheating skin. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” he pants, shifting uncomfortably. “I just ate too much.”

You raise an eyebrow and lift your hands in submission as he half-heartedly glares at you. There’s no point talking to him when he’s in a mood like this –he’d argue the sky was pink if anyone said otherwise. “Ok, love.”

Standing, you walk into the bathroom to get ready for bed; quickly removing your make up and brushing your teeth before returning to the bedroom and changing into your nightdress. He hasn’t left the couch but now he’s hunched over, clutching his stomach, and clearly in some discomfort. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants, his shoulders trembling. 

“Alan...”

“I’m fine. It’s just indigestion.”

You know something is seriously wrong then -he never snaps at you like that –but there’s nothing you can do, so you just nod silently at his back and slip beneath the covers, rolling over to face the window. 

His breathing becomes steadily more laboured, and it takes all of your willpower not to go to him and try comfort him. After a while you hear a low moan and quiet shuffling as he gets to his feet. The bathroom light flicks on, and for a second you can see his reflection in the window before he shuts the door behind him. He’d been leaning heavily against the wall, the only thing keeping him on his feet.

You sigh and continue to stare blankly out the window, until a scream radiates from behind the closed bathroom door. You sit bolt upright, scrambling out of bed and almost tripping as the sheets wrap around your ankles. 

“Alan?!”

Shoving open the door, you find him kneeling on the tiled floor, head pressed against the cool porcelain edge of the bath. His shirt and jeans lie in a messy pile beside him, and the sheen of sweat on his back glistens in the low light. He’s trembling, fists clenched, knuckles white with strain, and every few seconds he stiffens, trying desperately to stifle the pained cries falling from his lips.

“Sweetheart, what is it? What’s wrong?” You ask, crouching down beside him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. 

When he doesn’t answer you reach for his chin and gently turn his face to meet your gaze. His eyes are glazed with pain, moisture glinting in the corners. He’s biting his lip, and when he finally focuses enough to look at you, he shudders, a loud moan of pain escaping him.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” you say, moving to stand, but he grabs your wrist, tugging you back down beside him.

“...’m fine,” he mumbles.

“You’re not fine,” you huff. “Look at you. Alan, please, let me call an ambulance, you’re not right.”

He shakes his head, and frowns up at you. “I just ate too much,” he says again, and you know that can’t be the case –you’ve seen him with indigestion on many occasions and you can tell this is infinitely more serious -but you sit down anyway, pulling him gently towards you and cradling his head against your chest. You can feel the sweat from his forehead soaking through your nightdress. You stroke his hair, you other hand moving down to clasp his fingers that are clutching at his abdomen. He’s still shaking, and after a while you realise it’s not just his sweat that’s soaking through your clothing. 

Suddenly he cries out, louder than before, and he jerks away from you, rolling into a tight ball on the floor. You shift, kneeling over him and brush his hair away from his eyes. The tear tracks are clearly obvious now, and your heart breaks as he screams again. 

You rush into the bedroom, snatching up the phone and demanding an ambulance. You barely stay on the line long enough to give the concierge your details, before slamming it back down and running to the door, leaving it open a crack so they can get in, and hurrying back to Alan’s side. 

He’s practically sobbing now, and you somehow manage to manoeuvre him in between your legs with his back resting against your chest. You rock him gently, whispering soothingly in his ear and pressing soft kisses to his cheek and jawline, anywhere you can reach really. You bury your face in his neck, trying to hide your own tears. You’re frightened -you’ve never seen him in such pain, never felt so helpless –and you can’t help but notice the similarities between this and the time he’d had to cradle you in his arms on a bathroom floor as you lost your baby.

You finally hear footsteps outside, and you hurriedly wipe the fresh tears from Alan’s cheeks. He’d feel so humiliated to be found like that, especially as you can hear Daryl’s voice amongst those presumably belonging to the paramedics. 

“In here, Daryl!” You shout, and suddenly the tiny room is filled with people. Alan whimpers quietly when he’s taken from your arms and laid on a stretcher. You quickly get changed into some jeans and a loose tshirt, not wanting to be out of his sight for any longer than necessary. His lifts his hand, silently asking for you, and you grip his fingers tightly, glaring at the paramedic who tries to separate you. He gives you a watery, grateful smile before the pain forces him to shut his eyes again, a wave of pure agony twisting through his body.

You sit next to him in the ambulance, still holding tightly to his hand and brushing his sweat-soaked fringe out of his eyes. He’s quiet now, apart from the occasional low moan of pain, so you talk to him, trying to keep his mind focussed on something else. After ten minutes of you rambling on, he chuckles. The sound is so unexpected you almost drop his hand, but he tightens his grip, raising it to his lips and giving your knuckles a light kiss. You smile down at him, your fingers trailing over his cheek, and he closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

You soon arrive at the hospital and you can only watch as Alan is wheeled away for a scan. Sitting in the waiting room, the nights events catch up on you, and you sink into an uncomfortable chair and bury your face in your hands. You don’t cry –he needs you to be strong for him now –and you focus on your breathing, calmly telling yourself over and over that he’ll be ok. A kind nurse brings you over a cup of coffee and you sip at it, wincing as it burns your tongue. 

Half an hour later a doctor approaches and leads you to the ward where Alan is waiting. He tells you along the way that the scan revealed a kidney stone, and that he needs to be operated on. The doctor pulls aside the pale green curtain separating Alan from the other patients in the ward, and ushers you in ahead of him. You sit down, immediately grasping Alan’s hand, and listen to the doctor as he explains exactly what’s going to happen.

You wince alongside Alan, your eyes involuntarily dropping to look at his soon-to-be-violated member hidden beneath the thin cotton sheets. He closes his legs even tighter together, but otherwise shows very little. You roll your eyes at him; even now he won’t show any weakness, and you feel oddly flattered that he’d let his guard down to you earlier.

The doctor leaves, telling you someone will be up to prepare Alan for surgery within the next hour, and you nod your thanks at him, forgetting him almost immediately as you focus on your man. He’s pale, but the painkillers seem to have taken care of the pain, and his eyes are clearer than they had been. You inch your chair closer to the side of the bed and kiss his hand where the IV enters his body. 

“How are you feeling?” You ask quietly, mindful of the people on the other side of the curtain.

“Sore,” he mumbles, lifting his hand and rubbing your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. “I told them the bloody things would pass on their own, but they insisted on this.”

“So stubborn,” you say, leaning into his touch. You close your eyes briefly, and when you open them again you look up to meet his gaze. He looks nervous, though he’s doing his best to hide it. “You’ll be ok, sweetheart. It’ll be over soon.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced, lightly biting at his lower lip. His face twists in discomfort again, and his hand automatically moves to press against his stomach. Not even the morphine can block out all the pain it seems. You gently move his hand, resting it on his bare chest, and replace it with your own. You slip it under the sheets, tenderly rubbing his abdomen, and it seems to help as he relaxes slightly under your ministrations. 

He stiffens ever so slightly whenever a fresh stab of pain hits him, and you pause in your motions until it passes.   
As time passes his breathing quickens and you squeeze his hand to divert his attention away from what’s about to happen. 

“Maybe this is a good thing,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, I’ve heard dolphins can be bastards. Did we really want to spend the day swimming with them tomorrow?”

He looks at you in amused disbelief. “So their reputation for being helpful and sweet, and all round cuteness, is just a-”

“It’s a cover. They lure you in with the cute and then ‘wham!’, they’ve got your arm off.”

There’s a brief pause as he looks at you. “You’re quite weird, aren’t you?”

Laughing, you shift up to kiss him. “You’re only figuring that out now?”

He chuckles in response, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you back into another kiss. “I knew that,” he mumbles quietly into your mouth.

You sit back into your chair as you hear footsteps approaching your cubicle. A cheerful nurse sticks her head between the curtains, her body following as she sees she has your attention.

“Good evening Mr...” She checks the chart at the end of the bed. “Mr Wilder. We’re ready to take you down to theatre now.”

Alan goes pale, and he swallows as he meets your eyes. You smile encouragingly, tightening your grip on his fingers.

The doctor from earlier arrives, accompanied by two orderlies. Things start to move very quickly; the doctor goes over a few last minute details, and the orderlies prepare the bed to move Alan down to the operating theatre. He reaches out to you in panic, grasping your wrist and looking up at you with desperation in his eyes. “Will you come with me?” He asks quietly.

“Oh Al, of course I wi-”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” the doctor interrupts, “Non patients are not permitted in the operating rooms. Hospital policy, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Alan bites his lip, suddenly looking very small.

“I’ll be here waiting for you,” you say, reaching over to stroke his fringe out of his eyes and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He nods in disappointment, and then he’s gone, his hand sliding from your grip as he’s wheeled from the room.

The nurse lays a supportive hand on your shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” she smiles, “Dr. Botes is very good.” She takes hold of your elbow and steers you out of the ward, down the corridor and into another room. “We found a private room for you, you can stay here while you wait for him. Can I get you a cup of coffee, tea?”

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.” You reply, smiling gratefully at her.

She nods and turns to leave the room, leaving you alone for the first time. You sit down heavily in the armchair beside the bed, resting your elbows on your knees and burying your face in your hands. You don’t hear when she comes back in and sees you like that, leaving the cup of coffee on the small table beside you and leaving you be.

You’re dozing in your chair, despite the coffee, when the door opens and his bed is wheeled back into the room some time later. You stand up and move out of the way, rubbing your eyes as they hook him back to various machines. He’s out cold.

“How did it go?” You ask the doctor when he arrives in a few moments later, clipboard in hand.

“It went very well,” he replies with a smile, glancing up from where he’s writing something on Alan’s chart.

“Good, but I thought it was just a local anaesthetic he was getting,” you say with a slight frown, “I didn’t know you were putting him under for it?”

The doctor regards you with a patient smile. “We find with surgeries in the more... delicate areas, that it’s less stressful for everyone involved for the procedure to occur under general anaesthesia.”

“Ah,” you nod. “I see your point. When will he wake up?”

“He should come around in about an hour. A nurse will be around to check on him in a while.”

He turns to leave, a short nod acknowledging your thanks, and ushers the other people in the room out ahead of him before shutting the door behind him. 

You turn back to the bed, moving closer to take Alan’s hand in yours. He looks very peaceful, his breaths deep and regular. You smooth your hand over his cheek, smiling as his eyelashes flutter and he leans into your touch. You lean over to press a light kiss to his forehead.

Dragging your chair closer you sit down, his hand still in your grasp, and lay your head down on the mattress near his waist. It’s been a long night and you think you may as well try get some sleep before the anaesthetic wears off and he’s back to his belligerent self.

You wake to long fingers stroking through your hair. Turning your head you look up to meet smiling blue eyes, and a wide grin. “Hi you,” he says, his words slurring due to the drugs.

“Hey,” you reply, sitting up. You look him over, just making sure he’s hale and whole. “How are you feeling?”

He takes a deep breath, rolling his head on the pillow before he answers. “You look cute.”

You raise an eyebrow and struggle to stifle a smile, biting your lip at his words. “Thank you,” you say, shifting forward to run your fingers over his cheek. He leans into your touch, his wide, bright eyes closing, and he purrs quietly. Your lips twitch into another smile –he’s obviously quite high still from the drugs.

You brush his fringe back and his eyes spring open again, a fevered light in them. He reaches up and grasps your hand tightly in his, bringing it down to hover in front of his face as he examines it intently, caressing each finger individually, and pausing on your ring finger. He looks up at you with a puzzled expression.

“You don’t have a ring,” he says, blatantly confused, and seemingly annoyed at this observation.

“No,” you say, “I don’t. But I don’t need one.”

His face creases into a deep frown. “But I love you.”

You gasp and hold your breath as his thumb brushes over your bare finger.

“I love you,” he repeats, “and you should have a ring.”

“It’s not important, Alan,” you say, trying to calm him down. He’s getting increasingly agitated, angry with himself for some reason you can’t fathom. “I know you love me, that’s all that matters.”

He shakes his head, fixing you with a glazed stare. “No, I love you. More than anything in the world. More than... than...” You watch as he struggles to find the words to express himself. “Music,” he finally settles on. “I’d give it all up in a heartbeat if you asked me to.”

You don’t know what to say. He’s never said it so plainly before, leaving you to piece together his regard for you from intent glances and unspoken gestures. It’s... overwhelming to have it all laid so bare for you.

“Oh, Al,” You breathe, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Without another word you clamber onto the bed beside him, laying down and burying your face in his chest. 

He looks down at you in bewilderment, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. “Sweetheart, don’t cry,” he says in confusion. “I didn’t mean to upset you!”

He sounds so serious, so desperately unhappy at the prospect of making you cry that you have to sit up and let him see your watery smile. You press your hand to his cheek and kiss him tenderly on the mouth, his eyes sliding closed at the sensation of your soft lips against his own. 

“You could never make me unhappy, Alan,” you tell him, and he graces you with a dazzling grin.

He wraps a hand around your neck and pulls you into a deep, lingering kiss, his tongue lapping at your lips for entrance. The kiss trails off after a while and you relax back into his embrace. His arms are warm and comforting around you so it surprises you when he suddenly flinches, a quiet gasp of discomfort passing his lips.

You look up from where your fingers have been gently stroking his chest, tangling in the sparse patch of hair. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

His eyes are clearer now, the drugs starting to wear off, and he frowns as he nods. “Yeah, just throbbing a bit.”  
You bite back the immediate dirty joke that comes into your head, mindful of his very real pain. “Should I go get the nurse?”

He shakes his head. “No, just... Stay with me? He asks, looking uncertain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you assure him, settling your head back on his chest. You slip your hand down his torso, coming to rest on his lower abdomen. He stiffens slightly, holding his breath as if wondering what you’re doing. He relaxes as you start to rub gentle circles, the tender movements soothing him as they always do.

He drifts off back to sleep and you soon follow suit, his rhythmic breathing and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a light doze. You barely notice when the nurse comes in to check on him, and you miss the indulgent smile that crosses her face when she sees the two of you. She hasn’t the heart to ask you to move, his arms tight around your waist and your fingers clutching at his chest. She quietly does her job and leaves, heart lightened at your display of obvious affection for one another.

*** 

Alan is released early the next afternoon. The surgery had only been a minor one and the doctors felt he was well enough to be released into the care of the tour doctor. Besides that, they need the beds, you secretly think as you watch Alan limp across the room. He’d finally been persuaded to accept the wheelchair out as far as the car when he’d realised just how uncomfortable it was for him to walk more than a half dozen steps. Even then he’d still managed to make a big fuss, and was now busy grumbling under his breath, the effects of the drugs firmly in the past.

“Alan,” you admonish him, hissing under your breath as he glares at the orderly appointed to wheel him to the door. “Mind your manners.”

He looks up at you balefully, an apology in his eyes even if he won’t say it aloud. He huffs loudly as he’s pushed out of the room, you following just behind, getting some last minute instructions from the doctor. The most important being: under no circumstances engage in any ‘strenuous’ activities for at least a few weeks.

You nod as he repeats that last again, biting your lip to hide a smile as you see Alan’s disgusted and disappointed face glance back at you over his shoulder. He slumps in the wheelchair, the picture of a spoiled child, and so unlike himself you can’t resist the urge to ruffle his hair patronisingly. 

He brushes you away with a mock glare, hissing at you as he pushes himself out of the chair, unwilling to be seen outside in it. “It’s going to be the same for you, you know. No sex for me, none for you.”

Your face falls –that hadn’t occurred to you. You scowl. No sex? For weeks?!

Someone clears their throat and you’re dragged back to the present moment. He holds out his arm for you and you take it gently, knowing it’s as much to help him out to the waiting car as it is a chivalrous gesture. He hobbles to the exit, shaking the hands of everyone who’s been involved in his care, a polite, grateful smile on his face.

It doesn’t quite reach his eyes and once the car door has been shut behind you his face falls. He leans his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes and exhaling a long, slow breath. “Fuckin’ hell,” he swears quietly.

“Are you sore?” You ask, entwining your fingers with his as your hands rest on the seat between you.

“Just a bit tender,” he says, turning to look at you.

It’s more than that, you can tell. He’s being stubborn. “You’re such a boy,” you say as you roll your eyes, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

He pouts and you can’t resist taking his bottom lip gently between your teeth, worrying it before kissing him once more and sitting back as the car starts to move. “Don’t worry,” you say, pretending to glance unconcernedly out the window, “I’ll kiss it better for you when we get back to the hotel.”

You see his face light up out of the corner of your eye, his tongue darting out to lick at suddenly dried lips. He shifts in his seat, groaning quietly under his breath. You bite your lip, determined not to laugh as his expression slowly turns to one of alarm. His eyes dart down to his crotch and you glance down, closing your eyes and choking down the laughter that threatens as you see the burgeoning bulge in his trousers.

He breathes hard through his nose, fist clenching on his knees and tightening his grip on your fingers almost unnoticeably. You turn to look at him, your face a perfect mask of innocent concern. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, lips silently moving as he repeats whatever mantra he has prepared, designed to avoid embarrassing, or unwanted situations such as this.

You’re certain you hear the name ‘Thatcher’ in there somewhere.

You lay a hand on his knee, circling your thumb gently, and he flinches. “Hands off woman!” He squeals, batting you away with an expression of sheer panic. 

You can’t contain your laughter anymore, the driver glancing at you in the rearview mirror as your loud giggles fill the car. Alan looks at you, his face so affronted you’re sent into fresh peals of laughter. His face darkens further and you realise you’d better get a hold of yourself soon before you’re really in trouble.

You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing his cheek until he relents and turns to face you, dropping a chaste kiss on to your lips. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, hitting him with the doe-eyes you know he can’t resist. 

Sure enough he smiles, shaking his head at you in feigned exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

His wide smile fades as he cups your jaw in his large hand. “No, I wouldn’t,” he says seriously, kissing you once before leaning back and closing his eyes.

You watch him in silence, his words from the previous night suddenly springing into your mind.

“I love you, and you should have a ring.”

You don’t think he remembers saying it, but surely the fact that he had said it, even whilst drugged, means that he’s been thinking about it? You’ve discussed marriage of course, but always as something that would happen far off in the future –Your career, and the amount of time he spends touring, being the main concerns you both have. He doesn’t want to be an absent husband, or father if you’re ever so blessed again.

You stare blankly at the back of the seat in front of you for a moment before pulling yourself together and pushing the dark thoughts to the back of your mind. It will do no good to drag all that back up right now. He needs you to take care of him.

You arrive at the hotel to find Martin, Andy, Daryl, Franksy, and even Dave there waiting for you, all fivewith cheeky grins. Alan watches them warily through the window. “What the fuck are they up to?”

The mystery is solved as you step out of the car. Dave’s grin suddenly widens and he whips a bright red and gold wheelchair out from behind a large bush. “Your carriage awaits, Sir,” he says with a deep bow.

Alan smacks him across the back of the head, scowling deeply. You catch Martin’s eye and raise an eyebrow, receiving a shrug in response –it wasn’t his idea. Andy and Daryl are sniggering behind their hands, Alan’s black glare doing nothing to dissuade them. 

Franksy edges closer to you. “How is he? No long lasting damage I hope.”

You smile at him. You’ve always liked him –his sense of humour in dealing with the band especially –and his perpetual good mood is infectious. “He’s fine, he’ll be back to his usual self...” You wince as you hear Alan finally snap at the chortling men. “...in a few days.”

“Wonderful,” Fransky replies dryly, “but I think you’d better get him back to your room before we have to cancel another gig. We can’t afford a dead singer, or keyboardist.”

You chuckle in agreement and go to fetch your curmudgeonly other half. Taking him by the elbow, you lead him inside and into the lift, watching in concern as he slumps against the railing. He looks exhausted. Wordlessly, he allows you to support him to your room, leaning heavily against the wall as you open the door.

Once inside you help him over to the bed and he gratefully sits down, lying back with a groan and closing his eyes. His hand moves toward his tender member, hovering over his crotch as he struggles to resist the urge to rub it in an effort to relieve the discomfort he must be feeling. He whimpers quietly and removes his hand, clenching his fist as he lowers it to the bedspread.

“Why don’t you get into bed for a bit?” You ask, sitting down beside him. “I’ll order us up something from room service for dinner.”

“That sounds fantastic,” he says, dragging himself up.

“Here, let me...” You move to kneel in front of him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it from his shoulders. You fold it over your arm as you unlace his shoes, pulling them off and placing them neatly beside a chair, followed by his socks. You hang the shirt on the back of the same chair as you stand, motioning for him to do the same. He recoils slightly as your hands go to his waist, shooting you a warning glance. You tut at him and make swift work of his loose belt, pulling it free and unzipping him. He obediently steps out of the trousers and watches warily as you deposit them with his shirt.

You turn to look at him expectantly as he stands there with his hand on the elastic waistband of his boxers. “Do you want to leave them on?” You ask, not really expecting him to –he hates sleeping in anything more than his skin. “I promise no funny business.”

He smiles as if laughing at himself for his concern and carefully pulls them off, holding the front as far away from his crotch as the elastic will allow. He drops them to the floor and you frown, automatically moving to pick them up.   
He grabs you around the waist before you reach them, tugging you close and kissing you until you forget all about them.

Pulling you with him, he sits back on the bed, reaching behind him to untuck the sheets. He mewls quietly in pain and you immediately back off. 

“Oh god, I’m sorry Alan. Did I hurt you?”

He looks down at his lap and back up at you with a wry raised eyebrow. “Not your fault, love. You can’t control how my body reacts to you.”

You follow his gaze back to his slowly hardening member. “Oh,” you say, “Oh!”

Without a word you sink to your knees before him and shuffle closer between his spread thighs. He watches you warily, freezing as you get ever nearer, and holds his breath. You maintain eye contact the whole time as you lean forward, smoothing the soft skin of his thighs. You can smell him now, his usual musk slightly tainted by the clinical smell of hospital. 

You lick your lips, still looking deep into his eyes and press your lips ever so gently to the base of his cock. He gasps, and you kiss him again, slowly moving your mouth along his length until you reach the most sensitive tip. You drop the softest, sweetest butterfly kiss there and pull away, smiling as his hand tangles in your hair and tugs you up to kiss him properly.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, several moments later after he’s done plundering your mouth.

“My pleasure.”

You stand up and pull the sheets carefully up to his waist as he shuffles back to lean against the headboard. “I’ll go order some dinner.”

“Later,” he says, catching your arm and tugging you back onto the bed. “Lie here with me for a while.”

Delighted at his request you snuggle closer, pulling his head down to rest on your chest. You stroke his hair until you hear his quiet snores rumbling up from his chest, his breaths warm and regular against your neck, and you hold him closer, slowly slipping into dreams of rings and white dresses.


	7. Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fears are finally put to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final timestamp to Stjarna, and hopefully a good place to end.
> 
> Written May 2011.

London. July, 2007.

You spot her instantly, hovering near the wall on the edge of the large crowd of people gathered. She’s here for the same reason everyone else is, the album launch, but you sense she has another purpose too. The way her eyes linger, a light of possession and greed giving her an almost fevered expression.

You’ve spoken to her before, on the phone, mainly to organise this event, but also in her capacity as president of the Norwegian Fan Club. Recoil’s audience being the size it is, Alan is always very keen to keep everyone he can on board and happy. A necessary evil, you feel.

A large cheer goes up as Alan finally makes an appearance. He smiles gracefully, shaking hands and taking time to chat to everyone who stops him as he makes his way to the front of the room. He catches your eye as he turns to face the crowd, winking, and you purse your lips at him, blowing him a small kiss.

“Hello, I’m Alan Wilder. I’d like to thank you all for coming...”

You tune out and let the sound of voice wash over you. You know the speech anyway, he’s spent the last few days practicing it on you at every opportunity. Looking up, you smile as the crowd laughs at one of the jokes; how Alan had found Joe, difficulties with airport security, the usual tales. You catch his eye and give him a discreet thumbs up.

You take a moment to study the crowd; Daniel is standing near the back, complimentary glass of champagne in hand. A handful of photographers are scattered throughout, occasional flashes coming from various angles. You hope the lighting is good -another week of Alan complaining about his ‘double chin’ or the bags under his eyes does not sound appealing to you.

“... We weren’t quite sure what to expect, but luckily Jack and Susie, the studio owners, had a fantastic wine cellar, so we became firm friends very quickly...”

You roll your eyes but nod anyway –it really had been a very good cellar, and much depleted by the time Alan, PK and yourself had left. 

Taking a sip from your glass, you lean back against the wall and scan the crowd again. She’s still there, eyes firmly fixed on your husband, lightly biting her lip as she, unconsciously, leans forward, trying to get even closer to him. She’s already pushed her way to the front, jostling people out of the way.

She’s quite pretty, you concede; large dark eyes, glossy brown hair and thick, pouty lips. There’s something about her that almost reminds you of a picture of a younger version of Alan’s last girlfriend before he’d met you, Jeri. 

You jump when you feel his hand on your elbow, having missed the end of his speech caught up as you were in less than pleasant thoughts, the old, familiar feelings of not being worthy of him, pretty enough for him, flooding your mind. You’re forty now, just about the perfect age to be replaced with a younger model.

“How was I?” He asks.

You quickly throw up a mask to hide your fears from him, not wanting to ruin the event. “You were wonderful, darling. Not too long-winded, a good amount of humour; it was great. I told you you needn’t have worried.”

He smiles, relieved, and bends to give you a quick kiss. You smile against his lips, his warm, comforting scent doing much to improve your mood. Squeezing your elbow lightly he moves away to mingle with his guests, and you make your way over to Daniel. Even though it’s been years since you worked for him, you’re still quite close and you’ll always be grateful for what he did for you and Alan.

Daniel greets you with a warm smile and a one-armed hug. 

“Daniel, how are you?” You enquire. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

You pretend to blush, placing an affectionate hand on his arm as you fall into conversation about mutual friends and ex-colleagues. You’d been sad to leave Mute at the time; it was a small place and everyone had been close, but timing and somewhat fateful happenings had made it the only viable option. 

You shake your head to clear away memories of the awkward encounter you’d had with Andrew Fletcher just weeks before you’d left. You were still only thinking about leaving to set up your own business with a college mate at the time, but you knew from the second he’d launched himself across the room at you and starting spewing venom about how Alan had betrayed them, and how you were a disgrace to have supported him, that that was it. You couldn’t work there any longer, couldn’t risk personal issues getting in the way of business.

Three days later you’d handed Daniel your notice.

“How’s Daphne?” You ask, with a smile less forced than you’d expected. She took care of everything in Mute, and she’d been there forever. On your first day, when you’d been terrified, she’d given you a hug and made you feel so welcome. And when things starting developing between you and Alan, she was the first person you told. She’d eased you back into work after your miscarriage, making sure you were alright and bringing endless cups of tea and plates of your favourite biscuits. 

“She’s great, still pottering about like she owns the place, the old devil,” Daniel says with a fond smile. You’d never understood how they hadn’t ended up married. “Thinking about retiring soon though.”

“Never!” You gasp. The thought of there being a Mute without Daphne was like there being no moon in the sky. She was always there, she was part of it, intrinsically.

“Ah well, she’s getting on a bit, and she wants to spend more time with the grandkids. You know how it is.” You detect a note of sadness in his tone, and squeeze his arm gently.

“It’ll be a big loss, but you’ll pull through. You always do Mr. Miller.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see a glossy brown head getting closer to Alan. As politely as you can, you leave Daniel to his champagne and make your way over. It is her. Alan spots you as you come close and beckons you over.

“Sweetheart, have you met-”

“Britt,” you interrupt. “Is that right?”

She nods, her smile fading ever so slightly as you slide your hand into the crook of Alan’s arm. It’s not possessive, the wide grin on Alan’s face as he turned from her to greet you reassuring you that you haven’t lost him. You berate yourself lightly for your mistrust.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” you say, holding out your free hand for her to shake. “It’s always nice to actually see people in the flesh after speaking on the phone, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes!” Her eyes light up and dart towards Alan. “Up close and personal is always best.”

Your smile widens. “Isn’t it just.”

“Britta was just telling me about an event they’re planning in Oslo,” Alan says, missing the frostiness in your exchange. 

“It’s Britt,” she corrects quietly, cheeks flushing in embarrassment, and you sense, disappointment. “We’d love for you to attend. It would make it so much more special.”

“That sounds like a lovely idea! We haven’t been to Norway in years.”

“I liked Oslo,” Alan agrees, forehead scrunched as he thinks back. “It was a very nice hotel if I remember correctly. Extremely comfortable bed, do you remember?”

You struggle to suppress a grin as Britt’s face blanches. This clearly isn’t going the way she’d planned.

“It was, extremely comfortable,” you nod. “I’ll see if I can figure out which hotel it was so we can book the same place.”

“Excellent. Well, I’ll leave you ladies to sort that out while I go see to Daniel over there. He’s looking a bit lonely.” Alan smiles. His cheeks are flushed with, you suspect, too much champagne. “It was lovely meeting you Britta, stay in touch won’t you?”

You watch him walk away and when you turn back to Britt, you find her gone.

The trip to Oslo never happens.

*** 

Dawn is breaking when you finally fall into bed, thanking your foresight to book a hotel. Kicking off your shoes you stretch out and close your eyes, enjoying the feel of the cool cotton underneath you. The bed dips as Alan sits down on the edge, pulling his trousers off and throwing them haphazardly at a chair to join his shirt and jacket. He misses.

A brief pause and then you feel warm fingertips tracing patterns on your bare skin, just below the hem of your skirt. You hum with pleasure, smile widening as the buttons of your blouse are slowly popped open, one by one. Lips replace fingers and you bite your lip, forcing yourself not to arch into the touch.

“Mmm Mrs Wilder.” The lips move upwards and you tilt your head back as you feel warm, damp air being exhaled just inches from your chest. “You were very well behaved this evening.”

You giggle quietly, opening your eyes to find him hovering over you, leaning on his side. You reach up and draw him down into a passionate kiss, your tongues gently entwining as he cups your cheek in his large hand. You moan into his mouth, your other hand coming up to clutch at his shoulder. When he pulls away, you’re both flushed and panting.

“Was I?” You mumble breathlessly, trying to drag him down again.

He chuckles, moving to pin your wrists beside your head. “Yes,” he replies. “If someone had been trying to come on to you so blatantly, I would have punched them. You were very restrained.”

Oh. He’d noticed then.

You laugh in embarrassment. “As far as I can remember, you did.” 

“What can I say?” He leans closer, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. “I’m quite the caveman.”

You shiver, his tone creating a dampness between your legs, and you squirm beneath him. His grin, when he pulls back enough for you to see, is filthy. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Al... Please.”

It seems neither of you are in the mood for games tonight, as he instantly lets go of your wrists. You lift your hips off the bed to allow him to undo your skirt, and he pulls it off in one quick movement, leaving you in nothing but your stockings and underwear. Your top is the next to go as you wrestle it down your arms and fling it to the floor, fingers already working to unhook your bra. 

You suddenly feel cool air, your knickers having been ripped from your body. He settles himself between your spread thighs and you glance down just in time to catch him licking his lips as he stares at his prize. He meets your gaze as he slowly moves closer, tongue teasingly poking out from between his lips.

Your eyes roll back into your head at the first touch of his warm, wet tongue against your skin. He laps at your wetness, delicate little licks designed to drive you mad. Your breath hitches, fingers grasping his hair tightly as he works you. Without warning, he buries his face between your thighs, alternately sucking and biting at your bundle of nerves. Your orgasm, when it comes, leaves you screaming and writhing in his grasp. You don’t think you’ve ever come as quickly as that before.

“Oh my god!” You shriek, as the waves crash over you. He doesn’t stop, still stimulating your extra sensitive flesh as you continue to ride out your first climax. The second comes before its even finished, and the third. He groans against you, hands struggling to hold your thrashing limbs apart. 

“Ah!!”

He slaps you on the ass, hard. 

“Fuck! Alan!”

He lifts up his face, panting heavily, your juices dripping from his chin as he fixes you with a dark stare. “And you were so well behaved earlier,” he smirks. 

“Oh god please! Fuck me! I need you.”

Growling lowly at the desperation in your voice, he pushes himself upwards, taking your mouth in a rough, wet kiss. Your hands are frantically pulling at his boxers, tugging them down over his arse in a desperate attempt to free his cock. You want him so badly.

Without releasing your mouth, he reaches down to help you, pushing the now damp material down to his knees and kicking them the rest of the way off. You moan loudly as you feel his length, hard and pulsing, against your thigh. It leaves a wet trail of precum on your skin as you move together, rolling across the bed. Your lips have yet to part, lungs screaming for air, when he suddenly pushes inside you, stretching you almost to your limit with his huge member.

Your hands fist in his hair, dragging his head back to free your mouth so you can scream your pleasure into the darkened room. Her face briefly flashes across your mind –how you wish you could see her expression if she knew what she was missing –but all thoughts of her quickly disappear as he sets a punishing rhythm, his hips pistoning in and out of you relentlessly.

A bead of sweat drops from his chin and he leans his forehead against your chest, his breath coming fast and hot against your heaving breasts. You clutch at his shoulders, bucking your hips to meet his thrusts and clenching your muscles around him as you sense yourself hurtling towards another climax.

His hands grip your hips, so tightly you’re sure there’ll be bruises in the morning, but you don’t care. Who would care about anything when they have something as wonderful as this? There could be an atomic bomb outside and you wouldn’t care as long as he kept fucking you, as long as you were tightly held in his arms, as long as you always felt like his queen.

He freezes, back arching, burying himself in your wet heat once more as he spills his hot, sticky fluids inside you. The feel of his cock against your cervix sends you over the edge with him, and it’s some time before you regain your vision.

He’s still lying on top of you, and you can feel his heavy breaths warm against your neck as he pants. You stroke his hair, relishing this moment as you always do, the closeness you share as he softens and reluctantly pulls out, rolling over onto his side. He grins at you, sweat staining his face as he still tries to catch his breath.

Sitting up for a moment, you reach down and unhook your suspender belt, rolling your stockings down your legs. You use them to wipe at the stain you’ve left on the duvet before throwing them to the floor and lying down again. You shift onto your side, tucking a hand beneath your pillow and look at him.

He’s watching you, and he reaches out to stroke your cheek, smiling as you nuzzle his palm like a cat. “I love you,” he says quietly but clearly. “No one will ever take me away from you. I promise.”

And finally, you believe him wholeheartedly.


End file.
